Bad Jokes
by Doctor Harley Quinn
Summary: Harley sees a case that could make her career. The Joker sees a naïve young therapist with a breakable mind. Swiftly, he lures her into a downward spiral, resulting in her defeat and rebirth as Harley Quinn, the only one capable of surviving at his side.
1. a handshake of carbon monoxide

**Bad Jokes**

_Disclaimer: I do not and never will own Batman, the Joker, Harley Quinn, and all of the wonderful inventions that Bob Kane and others have invented over the years. I'm just playing with them. That said, this is my writing, so you know the drill—don't take/repost/use without my express permission, and thank you for being considerate!  
_

* * *

**Foreword / Opening Notes**

At the time of my writing this new foreword, just over three years have passed since I wrote and posted the conclusion to this story—that is, enough time for me to grow considerably as a writer (in my own estimation) and become dissatisfied with my original draft of the story. Of course, I still loved it dearly, but there was just so much evidence of my inexperience and impatience (several instances just made me bury my face in my hands in embarrassment). Therefore, in August 2012, I set out to perform a complete edit. Now, having just finished the epilogue, I am much more satisfied with _Bad Jokes_ as a whole.

If you read _Bad Jokes_ before and enjoyed it, have no fear. All of the major plot elements and encounters are still thoroughly intact. No, rather than revamp it completely, I instead delved in and did a thorough (and somewhat agonizing) fine-tuning. I polished up my syntax. I fleshed out Harley's character and made her more of an adult, more of a thinker, and more of a free agent. I totally revamped Pamela Isley, rewriting all of her scenes and adding a few more. I dug further into the relationship between Harley and the Joker from beginning to end, cultivating a stronger, darker tension and physicality and touching more on the Joker's [admittedly hazy] motivations. I tried to make asylum and police procedure and various inter-personal interactions more grounded in reality. I wrote roughly 15,000 words worth of extra scenes. And—though this has little effect on the text itself—I selected different, more appropriate music and lyrics to set the mood and capture the theme for each chapter (sue me, I'm a music person, and my taste has considerably expanded in the last three years, giving me a lot more to work with).

I'm proud of the end result and I hope you will be pleased with it. If you're just now discovering the story, I have a couple of opening notes that will help you understand what you can expect from this story.

**On Harley **– Harley is an astonishingly versatile character. Since she was first introduced, I've seen her portrayed as a victim, as a predator, stupid, smart, steady, insane, promiscuous, virginal, boring, fascinating… given her flexibility (shit, no pun intended) it astonishes me that people can dismiss the possibility that she could exist in the Nolanverse, or really, dismiss her as a character in general, and I urge you not to do so here—at least, not without giving her a chance. My interpretation of her is an attempt to imitate Christopher Nolan's habit of taking skeletons of characters and fleshing them out with his own imagination. In an effort to make her fit within Nolan's world, I've altered her from the Harley a lot of you know from _Mad Love. _She is curious, she is idealistic, she is intelligent (if inexperienced), and she is capable—but the best way for you to get to know her is to read on.

**On the Joker **– I could write pages and pages about the character of the Joker without even starting in on Heath Ledger's genius portrayal, but these notes are going on long enough already. Suffice to say that I have made every effort to interpret this character based on the foundation of Ledger's portrayal, using the more appropriate comic book elements to support my interpretation and take it somewhere new but firmly grounded in Nolanverse. He's an absolute bastard to write, by the way, but I always have fun (even if I lose quite a lot of sleep when he's spending time in my brain) and I genuinely hope my portrayal of him does not disappoint. Any critique or comment on my presentation of him is most keenly welcomed.

**On the romance/rating** – I want to tell you now just so that you aren't expecting something you won't get: I do not write smut. I'm far from a prude and have no objection to it when other writers handle it, but I have resigned myself to the fact that when it comes to sex scenes in text I am a three-year-old kid. There are only so many euphemisms for genitalia and I find them all hysterically funny (I'm constantly flashing back to the guidance counselor in 10 Things I Hate About You; it's a problem), so even if I tried, I wouldn't get past the first sentence. That's to say nothing of the deeply buried fear that one night I'll wake up to find the Joker at the foot of my bed, displeased with my audacity. I do, however, adore sexual tension, and I love the idea of the two of them feeding off of one another whenever they're in the same room, so don't take the "no smut scenes" to mean "nothing going on there." Harley's a pretty honest narrator.

In light of the lack of smut, this story is only rated T (I've found that people tend to get cranky when you put a story under M and there are no lemons), but I feel compelled to warn younger or less mature readers away. This is a story about adults, most of whom are not good people. There is graphic violence. Our narrator undergoes a disturbing shift in thought gradually throughout the story. There's plenty of cursing throughout—I know, it's the internet, not many people care anymore but I want to cover my bases and make sure you know what you're getting.

**Some quick acknowledgements** – I drew some inspiration from both _Fight Club_ and the _Hannibal_ series by Thomas Harris. Harley fulfills a sort of Narrator/Clarice role, while the Joker plays a part similar to that of Tyler Durden/Dr. Hannibal Lecter. The rewrite has purged a lot of direct references, but you will probably recognize similar dynamics. In an effort to hold on to my own vision and ideas, however, I did not read any other Jokerfic before or during the writing of this one (though I have since found some marvelous stories by beautifully talented writers that can be found on my favorites page if you're looking around for more).

**If these insufferably extensive notes **have failed to send you packing, then I'm pleased to say I'm done droning on. Proceed, and I hope you enjoy. Thank you for giving this story a chance.

* * *

**Chapter One**

_I'll take a quiet life  
A handshake of carbon monoxide  
No alarms and no surprises  
_**-Radiohead, _No Surprises_**

When I was first told what I was expected to do, I thought that it was a joke—which would have been more than a little inappropriate (or perfectly appropriate, depending on how you looked at it), given the situation at hand. So, I asked.

"Are you joking?"

I was sitting in the office that belonged to Dr. Michael Stratford, current director of Arkham Asylum, and seconds ago, he had informed me that I was being sent in to analyze the anonymous madman known only as the Joker, if I was willing. If this _was_ a joke, it would be a really bad one.

Allow me to explain.

My name is Harleen Quinzel—Harley to my friends and family. _Doctor_ Harleen Quinzel—I keep forgetting. After a full nine years spent racing through school, school, _more _school, and a host of internships, you would think it'd be easier to remember my new title. Not so. The fact that I was freshly working through a residency here at Arkham Asylum didn't help—not only was I just a newbie, but I was a newbie who didn't have a lot of practical experience to look back on. I figured this would keep my superiors from assigning me anything too heavy too soon.

Apparently not.

Stratford leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together. "Of course not. We really would like you to try."

I fell into silence once more, unable to fully comprehend this assignment. Finally, I managed a single question: "_Why_?"

Stratford sighed. "He's been in custody for months now, but we've made absolutely no progress with him," he said, the barest hint of frustration audible in his voice. "We've developed theories, practiced cures, but nothing is getting through to him. One of the doctors said that he might respond if someone a little closer to his own age—presumably—was brought in, and I thought of you." He looked at me over steel-rimmed glasses. "Was I wrong?"

I hesitated. From the start, I'd freely admitted to myself that I was attracted to Stratford. He was a full decade my senior, possibly more, but in addition to being fit and attractive, with rumpled dark hair and salt-and-pepper stubble which put him definitively into the category of "my type," he projected an aura of calm control that I found very appealing. As with most crushes, the thought of disappointing him or letting him down in any way was horrific to me. However, the prospect of analyzing the Joker was, quite frankly, terrifying.

I hadn't lived in Gotham City my whole life, but I'd lived in a neighboring county for most of it, and _nothing_ that had happened in the city could compare to the madman's sudden emergence and the months of horror that followed. For the longest time, no one had the slightest hope that the city would emerge from his reign of terror intact. Batman didn't seem capable of doing anything, the police were _definitely_ not equipped to deal with the man… hell, everyone in the city (criminal and civilian alike) was on the verge of packing up and getting out until he had been captured.

The Joker was now being held at the fortress-like Arkham, his trial postponed until his therapists were able to come up with a credible analysis of the man. I don't think the police felt safe with him locked up in a jail, considering what he'd done to the Major Crimes Unit in the space of one night and all.

This was a man that _Gotham City police officers _were terrified of. On the flipside, I was twenty-six, still felt eighteen years old more often than not, five-foot-five, and blonde-haired and blue-eyed to boot—which was great when I was trying to sweet-talk my way into clubs and concerts, but didn't exactly have the effect of making me come across as formidable in the least. Who said I was equipped to study this man who had been giving the other headshrinks trouble from day one?

_Still, _I thought, looking slowly up at my boss._ Face your fear, right? You wanted opportunities—well, this is an unthinkable one at your age, and if you turn it down, you can bet you'll never get another like it._

"Okay," I said softly. "I'll do it."

"Excellent," Stratford said, and his dark eyes gleamed, giving me a fluttery feeling. I was suddenly absurdly glad that I had agreed.

"But… doesn't this sort of seem… sort of transparent? You know, as a last-ditch effort," I asked, trying to get past that [decidedly unprofessional] feeling and back onto the subject at hand. "I mean… next, you'll be asking Dr. Crane to analyze him to get one inmate's diagnosis on another." I said this with a touch of pain. I had known Dr. Jonathan Crane when he was still a teacher, years ago. He was a cold, unfeeling bastard even then, but I respected his intelligence immensely, and we had formed a relatively functional teacher/student relationship that I had valued.

Interestingly enough, he was the reason I was so set on Arkham to begin with. It had been between Sinner's Ridge in Maine and Arkham Asylum in Gotham, and I had chosen the latter because I had wanted to know someone where I ended up. I hoped that it would ease my residency. I had been very upset when I had arrived to the discovery that the man who had once been the director of the asylum was now locked away in its bowels, just as mad as the inmates he had once treated.

Stratford gave me a small, wry smile. "I wouldn't rule that out if this project doesn't work out. The board is starting to grasp at straws." He paused long enough that I could tell that whatever he was about to say was important, and finally, he went on: "Quinzel, I don't think you know exactly what it is you've agreed to undertake. I personally had a session with this man. It was… unsettling."

My heart started pounding, without permission from me. Like I said, Stratford was the personification of self-control. It took a lot to unsettle him.

What, exactly, had I agreed to?

Before I could really delve into those second thoughts, Stratford pulled open one of the drawers in his desk. He pulled out a set of VHS tapes. "Footage of most of the sessions so far," he said, putting them on the desk in front of me. "You have a VCR?"

"I can find one," I said quickly. I thought I might have one stashed in the handful of still unpacked-boxes hiding in a spare closet somewhere, and I certainly wasn't going to tell Stratford I wasn't sure—if all else failed, I was sure I could locate one in a pawn shop or thrift store somewhere. Arkham just didn't have the budget yet to go digital (we were working on it), but I wasn't going to let that stop me from preparing as much as possible for my new assignment.

"Good. Review these. Along with this," he said, fishing a thick portfolio out of the same drawer. "His case file. It's… a bit of a mess."

I nodded, reaching out to collect everything. Stratford stopped me with a hand on my arm, and I tried to ignore the unsettled jolt in my stomach as I looked up at him. "Be careful, Quinzel," he said simply, and then leaned back. "Take the rest of the day off and study that," he added, nodding at the stack on his desk. "You start with him tomorrow."

My head snapped up; I could feel my eyes growing wide. "Tomorrow?" _So soon?_ The unspoken addition to my question hung in the air—why couldn't I have more time to study?

Stratford's lips took on a grimly amused set. "I'm not willing to send you in there _fully_ unprepared… but we figure that you'll have better luck if you don't have a… _practiced_ air about you. The less time you've had to make plans—even unconsciously—the better."

I nodded slowly and stood, gathering the case file and the tapes to my chest. It made sense. He nodded curtly at me. "Tomorrow, then, Dr. Quinzel," he said, back to formalities.

I nodded again and turned on my heel, leaving the office.

* * *

The second I reached the cramped little apartment near Monolith Square that served as my home, I slipped off my shoes, tossed my purse on the couch, and immediately focused my energies on finding a VCR. I was rewarded ten minutes later when I dug it out from the bottom of a pile of boxes, and feverishly set about plugging it into the TV. I wasn't even tempted to engage in some meaningless recreational hobby with my unexpected time off. My new case was much more interesting than cooking or chatting with Pam or even my much-loved gymnastics would ever be. I could easily return to those any day. Tonight was the only night I had to fill my brain with as much information about the Joker as I could.

Nevertheless, as I slipped the first tape on the stack into the VCR in preparation, I had a fleeting thought: _maybe I shouldn't do this_. Perhaps Stratford was right—in fact, he probably was. The less of an agenda that I had, the better—from what Stratford had said on the subject, I got the feeling that this man could practically smell schemes.

However, curiosity won out after a short internal struggle. I had seen and heard him via news footage several times, but that was nothing in comparison to what was being offered to me with these tapes. I wanted to see him, and I wanted to see him as soon as possible. These recorded sessions would do until I could indulge my morbid curiosity with the man himself tomorrow.

The screen fuzzed and spattered, and then flared to life. I paused the tape the instant a picture showed up—the camera was situated somewhere around the therapist's elbow, and as a result I couldn't see who it was. I had a clear view of the Joker, though.

He sat there, frozen by the VCR, leaning back in his chair. His hair fell over his face and his arms were crossed as far as they could go with the handcuffs restraining him. He looked like a sulky child. I got the feeling, however, that he was simply biding his time.

I got up from my lonely armchair in front of the TV and retrieved the case file. Returning to my seat, I flipped it open and scanned it, checking for the basics.

**Name: Unknown  
Age: Approximately 27-30  
Height: 6'1  
Weight: 165**

Further down were paragraphs and paragraphs of small type, theorizing what could be wrong with him. After looking over the list once, I gave up. Every psychological disorder known to man was listed, and there were a few that looked made-up. He _couldn't_ possess all of them. There was a good possibility that he was simply jerking his therapists along for the fun of it.

I wouldn't know till I watched the tapes. I set the file aside and found the remote control, taking a deep breath and releasing it before pressing play.

"Ten o'clock, Wednesday the thirteenth of July," I heard the therapist say in a low, smooth tone, and I recognized the voice—it was Dr. David Wilson, a psychiatrist known for his mild temper. He was much liked in the asylum, even by most of the patients.

"Good choice," I muttered to myself.

Wilson moved his elbow, clearing the camera further. "Will you tell me your name?" he asked gently.

I half expected his patient's behavior to match his sullen pose, but it seemed that he couldn't pass up an opportunity to speak. He looked up, and I literally gasped.

His eyes burned. That was the only way I could think of it. The shaky footage I'd seen on the news couldn't even begin to compare to this sharp, focused session recording. They _burned_.

"Well, now," he drawled, his voice curiously high and lively. "You see… I've intro_duc_ed myself time and time again. People always make you repeat yourself, ya know, Doc?"

"You were born the Joker?" Wilson asked without any trace of sarcasm. He was just asking the question. He was good at that.

The Joker's voice, however, was laden with sarcasm. "Of _course._ I just popped out and my mother said… '_Ohhh…_ he's such a happy little guy!' And a fella _has_ to live up to his name, am I right?"

"I see," Wilson said pleasantly. "She was a good woman, then, your mother?"

"Ah, now, why'd you have to ask that?" his patient replied, looking disappointed and leaning forward, putting his cuffed wrists on the edge of the table. "Delving into _child_hood… _everyone_ has a traumatic childhood, but things are _different_ with me, aren't they, Doc?"

"I—" Wilson began, but before he could get any further, the Joker smoothly cut him off.

"I find amusement in explosives… bullets and _blood_. And because I get my thrills from things that _you_—" and here he extended a long index finger to point directly, vehemently at Wilson—"uh, that you find harmful, something has to be _broken_ in my head, right? Something's _broken._ So ya gotta _fix it._ But whaddya do when nothin's broken? When you just _think_ there's a problem?"

"Do _you_ think you have a problem?" Dr. Wilson asked, keeping things moving after a short silence that his patient didn't seem inclined to fill.

And here, the Joker let loose a loud, unrestrained cackle. The sound was almost frightening— I was sure that it had to be much more so when one was actually in the room with him. He gasped once, twice for air, and then giggled some more.

"I'm not crazy, Doc," he managed to say, still chuckling. "I'm _not_. I just see… things… clearly. Ya understand?"

I paused the video, finding that my mouth had suddenly gone dry. I got up, went to the kitchen, and drank a glass of water before returning. I took another deep breath and then resumed the tape.

"I think I understand what you're trying to tell me," Wilson said after a moment. He didn't sound unsettled in the least—and I suppose he shouldn't be, professional that he was, but still. Our inmates tended to be one of two types: so violent that they were almost always drugged to the gills and unable to control even most simple body functions, or surly, withdrawn, and non-communicative. We had our chatty megalomaniacs, but none of them had essentially taken an entire city hostage. The Joker was… different. "You see the world in a certain way," Wilson continued. "The fact that no one else seems capable of understanding your perspective frustrates you."

_And that's the definition of a sociopath,_ I thought. It was certainly a sound diagnosis to start with; it didn't surprise me that Wilson was angling for it. The Joker's next words, however, froze me.

"What, Doc… you think I'm some sort of… _sociopath?_ Could be true? I mean, do _you_ think it's true?" His head was down again. I couldn't see his eyes.

"I don't know," said Wilson, adjusting instinctively. "Is it?"

The Joker stared, licked his lips, and detonated. "Now, see… I'm _tired_ of answering questions. Questions, questions, questions—it's all you people seem capable of doing; asking questions!" He lifted his cuffed wrists and slammed them down on the table. Wilson was silent for a moment.

I held my breath.

"Well. What would you like to do instead?" Wilson finally asked.

The Joker's head came up too suddenly, like some sort of animal with prey in its sights. "_Well._ Let's talk about _you,_ Doc."

Wilson was silent. I could tell what was going through his mind, the internal dilemma—let the Joker inside of his head in hopes that his direction might provide some much-needed insight? At what price? He might find out something important about his patient, but was it worth it?

It didn't matter. The Joker wasn't waiting for an answer. "Dooooc-terr… Will-son," he drawled, sounding the name out, testing it, then licking his lips as if savoring the words. "Yer a real nice guy, Doc. I can tell just by _talkin'_ to you. _Real_ nice." My stomach clenched.

"Thank you." Wilson's voice was firm, I would give him that. There was no hint of the apprehension he must be feeling.

"But you know something that I find a little… _weird?_ You're, uh, you're not wearing a wedding ring."

"That's correct, but there could be any reason—"

The Joker squeezed his eyes closed, violently shaking his head, completely rejecting Wilson's pre-emptive defense. "No, no, _no_—stick with me here. You're powerful, you're _nice,_ you're—" he waved his hand vaguely as if he was describing a concept totally foreign to him "a _handsome_ fella, and the, ah, hair and clothes indicate… um, that you're lookin' to be _settled_. Come on. There _must_ be someone."

"There was."

"Oh, no, David," I muttered. Wilson's voice was getting a little clipped. Professional or not, everyone had their cracks, and his were showing.

The Joker saw.

"Ah," he said, blinking and leaning back. "There _was._ What _happened_? She leave? Is that what happened; did she… _leave you?_"

"I don't think this is a wise topic to pursue," Wilson said.

"Oh, but _I _wanna pursue it. Were you just a little too _nice?_ Helping some pretty young nurse get… _adjusted?_ Some smart little doctor? Some… other woman?"

"There was no other woman," Wilson said. His voice was terse.

The Joker lifted his hands, palms out to show he meant no offense. "Sorry, _sorry_… some other _man,_ then?"

"We should really refocus—"

"Just kidding_,_" the Joker said jovially. "But, really now… why'd she leave you?" He sat there, watching, and when Wilson didn't answer, he said, "Were you not… _good enough_… for her?"

"Look, this sort of behavior is unacceptable," said Wilson, a new sting to his voice. "I often elect to allow my patients a certain level of freedom in steering the conversation, but if you plan to abuse it, you will lose that privilege quite quickly."

"Oh, I'm with _you_," the Joker assured him. "Women. Can't live with 'em… can't dismember 'em and leave them in a _dozen_ different dumpsters. Well. Not _legally,_ anyway," he said, with an exaggerated wink.

I could see some movement on Wilson's part. Nothing big, barely perceptible. I would guess that he just tensed up. The Joker saw it.

"Uh-oh. Some _girl_ of yours subject to violence?"

"You _are _aware that I can terminate this session at any time if you refuse to cooperate?" Wilson asked sharply, struggling to regain control of the conversation.

"Not the _wife,_ though… no, you'd still be wearing the _ring_ if _she_ was dead. Uh, a sweetheart?"

"If you keep attempting to provoke me—"

"Oh, I don't think it's just an _attempt_. Ya know, dark alleys in Gotham are _so_ dangerous. Always some _fuh-reak_ waiting to jump out at you, right? To cut and _stab_ and rip and _tear_. So much you can do to a little _girl_."

There was a loud scrape as Wilson pushed his chair back. I heard no further movement, and the Joker just raised his eyes, presumably to look at Wilson's face.

I heard the sound of footsteps heading away from the camera. Then, the first session was over.

* * *

Around eight o'clock in the evening, my father called. I was lost in the session footage, and probably wouldn't have answered if I hadn't glanced at my cell phone screen out of habit. At the realization that it was my dad, I quickly paused the tape, jerked my mind out of Arkham's affairs, and picked up the call.

"Hello?"

"Harley," he said irritably by way of greeting, "why didn't you answer your phone last night?"

I winced, remembering that I had awoken to several missed calls from him that I hadn't yet found the time to return. "I'm sorry," I said quickly. "You called late; I had gone to bed."

"You went to bed at nine o'clock? What are they feeding you there? I couldn't get you to go to sleep before _midnight_, even when you were a kid."

I smiled. "Well, some days are more tiresome than others."

He hmphed. "I was calling to check up on you," he said. "How's the big, bad asylum been since the last time I called?"

_Tell him about the Joker,_ I compelled myself. _Tell him about this new case you have._

I refrained from spilling the news, perhaps fearing that he wouldn't share my excitement, might cast doubts on my abilities. "It's… good."

Dad's tone turned incredulous. "Good? That's all you can say? Last time I couldn't get you to shut up about it."

_No, last time you cut me off and told me you have work to get done and that you couldn't listen to me gush all day. _"Things haven't changed all that much, Daddy," I told him. "People are still troubled; I'm still trying to help them."

"I never could understand why you wanted to spend so much time with people who've killed their wives and kids and chopped 'em up and stuffed them in the wall," Dad said bluntly.

"I've told you before, Dr. Crane—"

"Dr. Crane is _one_ of them now, Harley. He almost destroyed Gotham last year! Or don't you remember?"

I sighed as softly as I could manage—if my father heard the quick exhale, he'd accuse me of being disrespectful, and that would be just another argument to beat to death. "I know, Daddy. But when he was sane, he had a lot of true things to say. He convinced me that I had potential in this field and that I should go further with it."

"You should have stuck with your gymnastics," my father told me. "You were so good at that, Harley—you could have been performing at the Olympics before you knew it."

_Yeah, Dad, keep telling yourself that._ I wasn't nearly as deluded as my father about my skills as a gymnast—I loved doing it, I was good at it, but I didn't have the dedication to go all the way to the Olympics. My life and desire to find a stable career that _wouldn't _burn out by the time I reached the age of twenty got in the way.

"Well, we kind of already spent the money on my schooling, Dad," I reminded him softly, and then winced. _Oh, no._ I'd given him something else to latch on to. Sure enough—

"That's another thing!" he said, almost triumphantly. "For the money we spent, you could have gone to medical school and become a _psychiatrist_! Tell me again, why did you decide to go for a Ph.D instead?"

"Several reasons," I said, working to restrain my temper. "First, I've never been interested in medicine. I'm not nearly as fascinated by the study of different chemicals' effects on the human brain as I am by the idea of actual _therapy_ and trying to _help_ my patients _heal_. Second, psychiatry would have taken more than ten years after I was done with high school, and I did _not_ want to spend that much time—"

"You finished high school a year early and raced through your bachelor's degree," Dad interrupted blandly. "You could have had your doctorate in psychiatry by now."

"_Yes,_ Dad," I said, finally losing my patience, "but then I'd be required to spend another four years as a resident somewhere as opposed to just one or two here! Right now, I'm through with my internship and I'm almost _twenty-seven._ It's time for me to start actually living and working without being looked at as a child!"

"From what I hear, you're still being treated like a student at Arkham," he reminded me. I sighed and pushed a fist against my forehead.

_Tell him now. Tell him you're moving up._

"That happens to everyone in residency, especially one in a heavy field, like this one," I said, forcing myself to calm down. "The second someone with less experience than I have starts working there, I'll start getting treated with more respect."

"Well, it's _your_ life," he said resignedly.

_Then why on earth do you keep trying to run it?_

"Anyway, I've got to go," he continued. "I just wanted to make sure everything was okay."

"Yeah," I sighed. "Thanks for calling, Daddy." There was a pause, and then I blurted, "I love you."

The words appeared to catch him by surprise, as usual. After a few seconds, he replied, almost abashedly. "I love you, too. G'night."

"Goodbye—" I started to say, but he'd already hung up.

I sighed and took my phone away from my ear, staring moodily at it. My father and I had a complicated relationship to say the least, which was one of the other reasons I'd moved all the way into Gotham to work at Arkham.

He hadn't always been the way he was now—dominating, expectant, critical. No, he'd turned that way after my mother died of lung cancer when I was sixteen. It was likely that she'd asked him to make sure I would succeed in life or something of that matter, because not a month after she died, he was constantly on my case about my future, about my work, about my plans.

I loved my father. I'd had a good childhood and good parents, and I didn't go through that usual teenage rebellion to any real extent. I wanted to make him happy. So, instead of waltzing through the last two years of high school like I'd planned on doing, I doubled up on my coursework and finished at age seventeen before catapulting into college with an eye on my PhD.

It wasn't enough. I sometimes got the feeling that it would _never_ be enough—that he would always expect more out of me than I was able to give. That would have been fine if I was just able to shrug it off, but _no,_ I constantly had to try to rise to his expectations, to try and earn his praise and respect.

That was why I'd been so tempted to tell him about the Joker case. It was certainly an assignment to be proud of, even though I was fairly certain Stratford hadn't given me the case for my brains. Still, something held me back.

Maybe it was the enormous potential for failure—why tell my father about a case that I was almost certain to screw up somehow? Maybe it was the fact that my dad might choose _this_ day to get protective, to demand that I give up the case, to insist that the Joker was dangerous and that I didn't need to go anywhere near him. Maybe it was the fear that Dad would react as though he had no idea why the assignment was such an achievement.

I studied my television moodily. The Joker had been in the midst of one of his cheerfully sinister laughs when I froze the screen, face creased with mirth, lips pulled back to bare dingy teeth, almost threateningly.

I couldn't screw this up. I turned my phone off, and then lifted my remote and pressed play.

* * *

I barely slept that night. I was equally enthralled and horrified by the footage.

Wilson was easy—he'd come back to work too early after his fiancé had been killed in a mugging gone wrong, and Stratford had seen no choice but to let him, understaffed as we always were. However, he was by no means the last therapist to suffer from the Joker's sharp eyes and quick tongue.

He tore absolutely everyone apart. Male, female, young, old—he found some weakness and widened the crack in the façade until it was a gaping hole. He reduced his therapists (all professionally trained to stay calm in the face of violent, antisocial madmen) to raw bundles of nerves. He was so certain of himself—I could see how easy it would be to start doubting myself when confronted with that level of intelligence combined with his intensity, experienced (which I certainly wasn't) or not. No one had more than two sessions with him—he was too unnerving, too vile, too damn _focused_ on his goal of entirely repelling his shrinks for them to stay longer.

I was nervous.

That was an understatement. I had almost thrown up once or twice, and now, at 4 AM, I was pacing back and forth with a blanket thrown around my shoulders, trying to figure out what my greatest weakness was and whether or not I would break down, should he figure me out and decide to take me down.

Part of me had no hope. If all these other more experienced therapists had been taken down with no effort by this man, how on earth was I supposed to survive in there?

The other part of me was equally sure that I was the only person for this job. I didn't loathe him instinctively. I knew no one that he'd killed. He could figure out my issues with my dad, sure, he could call me on my overachiever status as a result of my father's criticism, but would that really be enough to reduce me to tears? I doubted it.

What else, then? My home had been loving and there had been a distinct lack of personal trauma in my life.

Maybe that was what he'd pick out? I was just a rube, after all. I didn't know the dark side of things. I was just playing at it. That was what he would say, anyway—if I gave him anything about myself.

I wasn't foolish enough to believe that I could keep myself a mystery. He'd see my cracks and he'd pry at them until my guts lay out on the table in front of us for him to pick through. Still, I could try to play my hand close to the chest, at least until I knew what I was dealing with.

I looked at the clock again. 4:49 AM. How had that much time passed so quickly?

I rubbed my eyes, which were burning. I needed to go to bed—I would need some rest before undertaking tomorrow's task. I went to my bed and curled up immediately, suddenly too tired to bother with getting undressed.

Tomorrow, I would face the Joker. It was a terrifying thought, but I had exhausted myself with worry, and so it did little to keep me from sleep for longer than a few minutes.

* * *

**A/N** - Thanks for reading! Please, please, _please _review to let me know what you thought, and I'll have another chapter for you soon!


	2. and we're just following the flock

**Chapter Two**

_And we're just following the flock,  
Around and in-between,  
Before we're smashed to smithereens  
Like they were, then we scramble from the blame.  
_**-The Last Shadow Puppets, _My Mistakes Were Made For You_**

Chaos. Explosions, gunfire, and _chaos._ Smoke was everywhere. I could barely see the Joker through the thick haze, but there he stood, his face ghastly white, gripping a double-barreled shotgun with both hands. I tried to run from him but I couldn't get any traction—couldn't seem to move from my spot. I tried to scream but only helpless squeaks made it out of my mouth.

I looked over my shoulder as he pointed the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

**BZZ.**

He pumped the gun and shot again—**BZZ BZZ BZZ BZZ BZZ.**

The irritating noise guided me from my unconsciousness, and I suddenly realized that no, I was not in some smoky alleyway with the Joker—I could feel my warm blankets, could see light streaming in from my window. That _incredibly obnoxious _noise was coming from my alarm clock. My hand shot out from the bundle of blankets and slammed down on it, cutting the noise short.

I was still exhausted, but I was in no danger of going back to sleep—I remembered immediately what was in store for me, and I rolled out of my cocoon of blankets and checked the clock. 8 AM.

"Dammit," I muttered. Three hours of sleep just wasn't enough. I stood and stretched—my muscles were tired, borderline sore from lack of sleep. "Great job, Quinzel!" I congratulated myself sarcastically. "Get a bad night's sleep right before one of the most important days of your life. Woohoo." I groaned, and then headed for the bathroom.

I went through my morning routine like a zombie. The lack of a good night's sleep showed on me, as it always had—my face was pale and there were dark purple circles beneath my eyes.

"I'm gonna get slaughtered today," I mumbled to myself, standing in front of the mirror, but I could say one thing for the sleep deprivation—it made it hard to find the energy to be properly afraid.

I tried to make up for the evidence of my long night with some extra attention to my makeup and clothing. I managed to conceal the shadows to a degree, but the paleness was a lost cause—I wasn't one for coating my face in dark powders and creams. I left it alone, flicking on some mascara.

I chose a simple, knee-length black skirt, pairing it with a red top and black pumps, attractive and businesslike but nowhere near seductive, because this was going to be difficult enough _without_ me looking like a sexy librarian. My hair, I twisted and clipped back. I was too tired to try and make it do anything it didn't feel like doing—plus, I didn't want to take _too_ much care with my appearance, lest the Joker call me on it and attach a reason to it that I didn't want attached.

I glared at my reflection. "You're over-thinking this, Quinzel," I announced aloud to myself. "Get in, do your job, get out. Stop being such a scaredy-cat."

With that in mind, I grabbed my bag and left for work.

* * *

Unfortunately for my nerves, I would not be facing the Joker first thing in the morning.

Ideally, Arkham Asylum would have been located somewhere outside of the city, somewhere greener, with more fresh air and more room for the inmates to move around. Unfortunately, the out-of-date surveillance equipment was simply evidence of a long history of budgetary restraints as far as the asylum was concerned. There was simply no money to move or expand from the increasingly deteriorating island that was the Narrows, and so the administrators and doctors at Arkham just gritted their teeth and tried to do good work.

There was no denying that the asylum was a grim place, from the buzzing, flickering fluorescent lighting that cast a sickly yellow-green light on everything within to the peeling linoleum floors in the echoing hallways, but by this point I had gotten used to the bleak interior and the dangerous neighborhood that surrounded it. It helped that I was more focused on my work than on the environment in which it was done.

I arrived to a slightly noisier chaos than what was usual for Arkham. A pair of orderlies rushed past me the second I got inside. Before I could do much more than look around in an attempt to find someone to fill me in, my name was called.

"Dr. Quinzel!"

I turned to see Stratford coming towards me. I gave him a wan smile in greeting, feeling a wave of self-consciousness as I suddenly recalled how tired I looked, but he didn't seem to notice, addressing me in clipped tones. "It's about time you got here. We've had two major breaches already—some idiot orderly gave Richmond extra blankets and he just tried to hang himself, and _then_ Ortega tried to stab Laberdysk with a shiv he somehow made out of a toothbrush and snuck into the common room. And Howard just told me that Crane's is in the midst of yet _another_ psychotic break."

I processed this information as quickly as possible. "All right. What do you want me to—?"

"Take Crane, and don't sedate him unless you have to—benzo makes him violently ill and Thorazine just makes him worse in the long run. You're one of his favorites; maybe you can talk him down." Stratford gave a short sigh, his first real concession to the stress of the morning. "This day is shaping up beautifully already," he added dryly, and then reached out and turned me towards the elevators. "Go." I went.

We kept Crane on the third floor. I could hear the commotion even as I moved quickly down the hallway to his cell. The other inmates on his floor were riled up by his antics and were yelling and banging on the walls, but I ignored them in favor of the task at hand, clipping determinedly down the hall. A nurse and an orderly stood outside of his cell, watching and shaking their heads grimly. "I'm here," I said abruptly as I strode up, trying to project an authority I didn't exactly feel I had. "Is it the usual?"

The orderly's name was Ryan Howard. He was dependable and obedient, though he was known for he was known for harshly putting down inmates who were misbehaving—a necessity, really, but his willingness to get violent at the slightest provocation didn't sit easily with me. He nodded in response to my question. "I'm getting the straitjacket if he starts scratching himself again."

"Well, let's hope that won't be necessary." I looked into the cell. Crane was hiding underneath his cot. I winced— I hated seeing him like this; the old Crane would have died rather than suffer the humiliation of madness. I stepped up to the plexiglass and rapped on it. "Dr. Crane," I called out, hoping the use of his now-defunct title would call him back to lucidity.

One sharp movement told me that he'd turned his head towards me.

"Dr. Crane, please, come out from under there." I knew he could hear me through the slits in the glass, but aside from that initial movement, he didn't respond. "Dr. Crane, please," I said again. "It's Harley. You remember me, don't you? I want to talk to you."

There was a moment of silence, and then his voice floated out from under the bed. "They're beside you. Make them leave."

"Who's beside me?" I asked, pressing closer to the glass—his voice was faint.

"You can't see them?" I barely picked up on the hoarse whisper.

I turned to regard the two workers. Naturally he would see the two as his enemies; the nurse only came in to sedate him with medications that made him sick and the orderly only came in to put him in a straitjacket or hold him down _while_ he was being sedated. "Can you give us a minute? I'll call if I need you."

"You sure?" asked the nurse, a relatively new employee whose name I didn't know. In my defense, work at Arkham was not for the faint of heart, and the turnover rate was so high that it wasn't even worth trying to learn people's names until they'd stuck out the first month.

"Yeah. See if you can manage to calm down the other patients on this hall, okay? I'm going to go in and talk to him."

"I don't know, Doctor," Howard said, frowning doubtfully. "Little lady like you shouldn't go in there with him alone."

I gave him a tight smile and spoke quietly. "Jonathan was only dangerous because of his toxin. He doesn't have it anymore. I'm stronger than I look, and considering the fact that he barely eats and weighs ninety pounds dripping wet, I think I also outweigh him, so thank you for the concern, but I think I'll be all right."

Howard held up his hands in a gesture that communicated _all right, no offense meant_ and backed away. He went instead to calm down the other inmates. I sighed and went to the keypad next to the heavy door, typing in the code for Crane's cell—the codes consisted of four to eight digits and differed for each inmate. I knew his by heart, even though I wasn't often given the opportunity to work with him (he was a higher-profile patient than my experience merited, though judging by the pattern of the past twenty-four hours, that was going to change quickly). The door gave a loud _chunk_ noise as it unlocked, and I opened it and went inside.

Crane was still under the cot. I went in and stood up straight in front of him, putting my hands on my hips. "Dr. Crane," I said, trying to keep my voice gentle but firm. "It's Harley. You need to get out from under there."

"He's here," he whispered. That was the only response. I sighed and worried my lip. Seeing him like this disturbed me, doubtless another reason why I was rarely allowed to work with him—in other patients, it was easy to accept, but with someone I had known personally before…

The dose of fear gas Batman had given him was strong and concentrated, and the medics had gotten the antidote to him far too late to restore his mind, concerned with restoring Gotham's "good" citizens first and foremost. I guessed that he would remain out of touch with sanity for the rest of his life, though he had his lucid days. Sometimes he had his lucid _months,_ which had several times resulted in his escape from Arkham. This always ended with attack and abduction by his worst fear, the Batman, and those incidents always triggered bad breaks that rendered him right back in the asylum.

"Dr. Crane, please," I said softly. "Just come out."

To my surprise, he suddenly did just as I requested. He wiggled out from beneath the cot and stood up. He stood there with his hands at his sides, as if waiting for further instruction.

I looked warily at him. It had never been this easy, and I didn't trust him. "Dr. Crane, it's me," I said again, gently. "I need you to focus, okay? I need you to try to remember—what you're seeing right now, the things that are scaring you… they're not real." He rested his gaze on me—his eyes had always been so incredibly blue, framed by that shock of untidy black hair… I didn't like seeing them now, fogged with uncertainty.

"Of course they aren't real," he said shortly, his eyes brightening momentarily. My heart rose. The old Dr. Crane was back—for how long, I didn't know.

"But," he continued, "have you tried living with it?" His eyes fogged again. "All around you… see them? They're… they're _everywhere._"

"Dr. Crane," I began, forcing calm into my voice for his sake.

"He's _here_!" His voice rose, shrill, piercing—so lacking in composure and poise that I had to force myself not to wince. His eyes fixed on me, wide and crazed again. "And _you!_" he hissed, drawing a sharp breath through clenched teeth. "You're _helping him!"_

"Dr. Crane, listen to me," I said, knowing that if the delusion hadn't gripped him too firmly, he would still be subject to reason. "This is a paranoid delusion, and I _know _you know it. You're stronger than this. Fight it. It's not _real_."

"Of _course_ you'd say that," he snarled. "You're a filthy, traitorous _bitch!_" He lunged at me. I dodged instinctively, but he wheeled around and came at me again.

"Jonathan!" I said sharply, moving swiftly out of his way, keeping some distance between us. He started circling me, and I moved with him, keeping him fully in my sight. "Please! I don't want to have to sedate you."

All of a sudden, he stood straighter. The crazed gleam left his eyes. His head tilted up. "Then don't, Dr. Quinzel."

I relaxed, just minutely, but that was my undoing.

He came at me again, too fast, and this time, I was unprepared. He caught me by the neck, rushing me back against the glass. He had always had a scholar's hands with long, strong fingers, and they closed around my throat now with bruising force, aiming to crush, to destroy.

The edges of my vision blurred, distorted, and blackened, and the dark quickly began to overtake the rest of my sight. I felt myself sliding down the wall, losing consciousness.

And then, the pressure was gone. My sight came back slowly, and I saw Howard, wrestling Crane down onto his bed as the nurse prepared a syringe. The first breath was sharp, painful, and I coughed to try and rid myself of the ache.

"You all right, Doc?" Howard demanded. I nodded; it was all I could do. Crane shrieked—the noise was shrill and painful.

"Get it out! Get it out!" he screamed. "It's _biting_ me!"

Howard waited until the screams had subsided and Crane was lying limply on the bed before coming over to me and extending a hand. He was barely out of breath. "You all right, Doc?" he repeated.

"I'm fine," I said as I accepted his assistance, although I was willing to bet that the forming bruises on my neck would say otherwise in an hour or so. "Is he—?"

"Sedated," Howard assured me. "He'll be all right. We should just let him rest for now."

I nodded in agreement. "I'm going to go to my office," I said quietly. Speaking was painful, almost as painful as the embarrassment I felt at being caught so thoroughly off-guard. It had happened right after I'd assured Howard that I would be fine, too… "If anyone needs me—"

"I'll let 'em know," he said quickly.

I looked directly at him. "Thank you," I said.

"Just doing my job," he said, sounding incredibly cheerful for a man who had just had to forcibly subdue a violent madman. I nodded again unsmilingly, and then retreated downstairs to my office.

Okay, so it was more of a closet than an office, and I was sure that if there had been more new doctors at Arkham I wouldn't have acquired it—but work at Arkham was considered suicide, at least this early in one's career. The inmates were hardly quick fixes and breakouts were increasingly common, what with the frequent staff changes making it difficult to establish good security habits and steady routines.

I wasn't intercepted, and once there, I dug around in my desk for an elusive compact mirror that I was _sure_ I had _somewhere._ After a minute, I found it, hidden under a stack of notebooks and pens. I opened it up and angled it so that I could see my throat.

_Ouch._

I winced at the sight. When I bruised, it usually took a day or so to turn the purplish-brown that would be the norm for the next week. These… there was already a tint of blue around the angry red, finger-shaped smudges. There were four on either side of my neck, but they were closer to the back where he'd been digging his fingers in to stabilize his grip, not easily visible—no, it was the two stark marks right at the front and center of my throat where he'd pressed his thumbs into my windpipe that would end up being a problem. Somehow, the sight of them made them hurt even more.

I dropped the compact on the desk and leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes, already trying to think of a way to hide them. Stratford would not be happy if he saw them. He might try to send me home for the day to recover, and I didn't want that. Sure, I was about to walk into the most nerve-racking case I'd ever been assigned to, but I _wanted _to do it. The Joker intrigued me, and from an opportunistic point of view, I'd have to be crazy to back out before I had even begun. If I succeeded in cracking him…

But that was a very big _if._ I was getting way ahead of myself.

I sighed and looked over the bruises again. Makeup was out of the question— I had no desire to look like a high school kid, trying fruitlessly to cover up hickeys with concealer. The only other option that I could think of was a scarf. The only problem was that I didn't have one anywhere near my office.

Before I could decide what to do, there was a tap at my doorframe. I looked up. Stratford was there with an ice pack.

I sighed. "Word travels fast, huh?" I questioned, a little bitterly, leaning forward to rest my chin on my hands and watching him forlornly.

"It's Arkham," Stratford replied dryly, walking over behind my desk and stooping down. "Small place. Everybody knows everything about anything."

He moved my wrist so that he could see my neck and whistled quietly. "Wow. He really got you."

"Yeah," I said blandly, hissing when the ice pack touched my neck.

"Keep it there for twenty minutes," he said, bringing my hand to the pack and then standing up.

"I know, I know," I said softly. "I made a stupid mistake."

"Yeah, you did. That's why you're not going in to face the Joker today." He said it so matter-of-factly that at first, it didn't register. When it did, I shot up out of my chair, dropping the ice pack on the desk.

"What? Why?" I demanded.

"Look at you," Stratford said, unruffled by my reaction. "You're marked up, you look exhausted—you're a wreck. Probably stayed up all night worrying about it."

"If we wait any longer, the bruises are just going to get worse—" I tried.

"Then we'll wait even _longer _until they're gone completely, if that means preventing him from getting ideas. Quinzel, I honestly don't think you're any match for him at this point. He'll tear you to pieces."

His words and his lack of faith should have hurt my feelings, of course, but I'd developed a relatively thick skin over the past nine years. "Look, I slipped up with Dr. Crane," I argued. "He was a mentor of sorts to me, someone I used to trust. I made the mistake of allowing myself to forget that he isn't that person anymore for just a few seconds, and I paid for it. It's not going to happen again, and certainly not with the _Joker_."

"You made an amateur mistake, one that I doubt you would have made had you been in a more settled state of mind," Stratford said clearly. "I don't want to see you getting hurt further."

I pressed the back of my fist against my forehead, hoping that my cold hands would have a soothing effect as I tried to keep my temper. "The Joker will be restrained, right?"

"Of course—"

"Then I don't see the problem!"

"—but he's wriggled free before!" Stratford said, the slight lift in his voice the only evidence of his growing exasperation.

"Doctor, you decided to send me in yesterday," I said, equally frustrated. "You must have thought things through before you told me what you wanted me to do, and by this point you know me well enough to know that I'd probably be a ball of nervous energy before the first session, but you _still_ asked me to do this. Why the sudden one-eighty?"

"Because of what happened with Crane," Stratford snapped. "It was foolish and naïve, and I fear I may have misplaced my faith in you."

I looked down at the ground, willing myself to stay calm, to hold on to my temper. _Search him. Search him and find the holes in his argument._ "Naïve," I repeated.

"Yes."

"Didn't you say that the Joker could sniff out an agenda?"

"Yes," Stratford said warily.

"Then explain to me how my _naïveté _is a _bad _thing in this case."

"Quinzel—"

"You'll be watching us on cameras the _entire_ time!" I said. "If he tries to tear into me, then pay close attention, find something about his attack that you can use. Sure, intervene if you have to, pull me out the second you get scared but do _not_ rip me off of this project before I've even _begun_!"

Stratford was quiet for a very long time. I knew this meant he was thinking, and with a sigh I sat back down, picking up the ice pack and replacing it on my neck, switching sides this time.

"All right," Stratford said finally, after another minute had ticked by. "All right. I'll give you _one_ _chance._ If I think for even a _second_ that you're in danger of being hurt the way Crane hurt you, then I'm pulling you out. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," said I emphatically, relief flooding through me. "_Yes._ Just tell me when I start."

"You meet him in an hour," said Stratford shortly. "And I don't want you around Crane anymore."

I felt a sharp pang at the words. "Why?" I asked quietly, though I knew the answer full well.

"You don't need to make any more mistakes," Stratford said simply. "In the meantime, find something useful to do." And with that, he turned around and left my office.

* * *

I burned time by helping clean up the aftermath of the Ortega/Laberdysk confrontation. I spoke to the latter briefly and was able to calm his agitation, reducing him to a relatively passive state for the time being. He was safely restrained in the infirmary and Ortega was heavily sedated and in solitary confinement, so I didn't look for any trouble for a while from their end.

When that was finished, I had ten minutes before I was scheduled to confront the Joker, and my heart was racing. I ducked into a bathroom to check my reflection. The bruises were perhaps a bit bluer, and I thought once more about covering them up— I could call Pam, get her to bring a scarf… but no. Either way I went with it, I was fairly sure that my new patient would notice.

My face was pale, the shadows beneath my eyes standing out. Stratford was right, I looked like a mess. After a moment of deliberation, I took my hair from its clip and let it fall down around my shoulders, willing to accept the possibility that my patient might misinterpret the fact that I wasn't wearing my hair in a more business-appropriate style, because at least this way it would cover the bruises along the side of my neck. I splashed some water onto my face, hoping the cold might flush some color into my skin. Beyond that, I couldn't do much.

Stratford found me in my office five minutes after that, and stood in the doorway, expressionless. "It's time," he said simply.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking to my own execution as I followed him through the hallways to the elevator. I was mildly surprised when Stratford hit the button for the second floor instead of the top—I had been expecting to confront the Joker in his own room.

_Then again,_ I thought to myself, _it's best not to approach him on his home turf, at least not this time. The more comfortable he is in his surroundings, the more dangerous he'll be._ For all my efforts to calm myself, it wasn't a very comforting thought. The whole of Arkham was far from his home turf, yet he seemed perfectly at ease ripping people to psychological shreds within its walls.

Stratford led me to the third door on the right, which was guarded by two orderlies, and then he stopped, turning to me. Though all of these rooms were monitored by at least one surveillance camera apiece, there were no windows looking in on it from the hall, a common measure meant to make the patient feel less exposed and therefore more willing to open up. "Don't touch him," my boss said directly. "Don't go over your half of the table. He's handcuffed, his feet are shackled, but that doesn't mean for a second that he's not still _very _dangerous. If he gets physically aggressive, then there's an orderly in the room to restrain him and two more outside in case they're needed. If you feel endangered, then terminate the session immediately. Is everything clear?"

"Perfectly," I said, holding tightly to my patience. I felt like I was being babied. I wouldn't deny that I felt safer knowing that there would be an orderly inside, but his presence would render those measures taken to make the patient feel less watched practically invalid, therefore limiting me. For a first examination, though, I could bear it, at least until I knew what I was up against.

Stratford studied me for another long moment, and then gestured to the door. "All right. Go on in." It was an examination room, which meant the door could be opened from the outside but not from within. I took a deep breath, pulled open the door, and stepped through.

The first thing I saw was the orderly standing in the back left corner. He was a very big man, very intimidating. A point was very clearly being made with his presence.

My eyes then fell on my new patient, sitting calmly at the table in the center of the room, his cuffed wrists resting on the edge. As with the start of most of his previous sessions, his head was down.

I gathered my courage and walked to the center of the room, pulled out the chair opposite from him, and sat down.

He looked up then.

I was glad he hadn't made eye contact before; I might just have lost my courage and bolted. The footage of his previous sessions had given me a taste, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality. They were black at first glance, blacker than any eyes I had ever seen, and even without the makeup that we had denied him upon his admittance to the asylum, they appeared deeply hooded. There was a predatory, animalistic gleam in them that was very frightening.

I steeled my spine and tore my eyes away from his for a moment in order to look at the rest of him. The lack of his favored greasepaint meant that I got a very good look at his scarred face. I didn't stare, flicking my eyes up after half a second to meet his again. I wanted to examine those scars in detail, of course, but I didn't want to set him off, and I figured staring might do just that.

He tilted his head sharply to the side. _Animal,_ I thought, unable to stop the idea from forming.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he spoke.

"_Hello_, there… _Doc_-torrr."

* * *

**A/N** – Hmm. If I'm cruel enough to give you a cliffhanger two chapters in, what on earth could I possibly have in store for you?

…no, seriously, I'm sorry to do that to you guys, but the first session needed its own chapter. However, be cheerful! Since this chapter is a bit shorter than the first and since I am terribly horrible for leaving you where I did, I'm planning on a relatively prompt update. I hope. I know full well that you're reading this to see more of the Joker, not for a look at Arkham under a magnifying glass, and I promise you that after the next chapter, he'll rarely be absent. I can't be positive when I'll update; I'm running down to Florida tomorrow for a week, and I will indeed have my laptop with me, but I'm going to have to find a place to plug into the internet. No worries, though; I'll go to Starbucks and pretend I'm writing an inspired screenplay while really updating.


	3. you hide your looks behind these scars

**Chapter Three**

_You hide your looks behind these scars.  
_**-The Misfits, _Hybrid Moments_**

For a long second, we stared at each other. Then, gathering my courage and working hard to project a sense of level calm, I quietly said, "Good morning. I'm Doctor Harleen Quinzel. I'd like to speak with you." I instantly realized that my voice had turned up slightly at the end, making the statement sound like a question. I hated myself for it.

He didn't miss it. His mouth twitched, and his eyes shifted from mine momentarily, reciprocating the once-over I had given him, scanning me from head to mid-torso (which was all he _could_ see before the table cut off his view of the rest of me) and then crawling back up to my eyes again. He licked his lips, and, having seen enough footage of his previous sessions to determine that he had something of an oral fixation, I knew better than to take it as lechery. Then, he mumbled, "_That_ didn't take them long."

I had a fairly good idea of what he meant, but I was determined to start strong, to show him that I didn't intend to be pushed around. So, I asked, "Excuse me?"

He straightened up from his slouch, clearing his throat, showing the surprising consideration of covering his mouth with a closed fist. "Nothin', Doc. Something caught in my throat. Uh—what was it you were saying?"

I watched him warily, wondering if it would undermine my authority if I let him get away with almost-certainly insolent mutterings, but a quick reality check reminded me that in all honesty, I _had _no real authority. I might be able to stand my ground, but that was the best I could hope for—judging from what I'd seen, he was going to steer the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go no matter what I did, so I yielded. "I wanted to ask you some questions."

"Oh, by all means," he said genially, almost before I was finished speaking. "I'm _here_… for your entertainment."

I didn't like this. It threw me off guard. For him to be so outwardly cooperative… it meant that he was hiding something. Maybe. The fact that I couldn't tell if there was an undertone to the statement (bitterness? sarcasm?) only made it worse.

I decided to take him at his word and start with the obvious question, just to see where it got me. "Why did you take on this alias?" I asked, gesturing towards him. "Why the Joker?"

Admittedly, he didn't look particularly clownish at the moment—not in the orange Arkham jumpsuit, not stripped of his makeup, cuffed and shackled, sitting docile at the table. He must have been conscious of this as he jerked his head to the side and decided to play. "Well… ya see, I just… have this _incredible_ sense of humor. Not to toot my own horn, but…" He inclined his head as if to say _there you have it._

"Most people don't find your sense of humor so amusing," I replied coolly.

The Joker shrugged. "Well, I can't be held accountable for other people's, uh, _bad taste._"

"Maybe you're the one with bad taste," I suggested, provoking him, angling for a less-than-cordial response. The Joker cocked his head. He studied me, and I worked to keep my face impassive.

"Ya know, _I_ don't think so," he said at last, leaning slightly over the table. "_I _think I just see things _cuh_-_learly_." His eyes rolled into the back of his head with this word, like a rabid dog's, but he showed no signs of real aggression, and a split-second later, his eyes rolled back forward and he was watching me again.

I turned my head slightly, looking speculatively at him out of one eye, trying not to show how shaken up I was already. "You say you see things differently."

"Yeah." His answer was soft, clear—a punctuation mark between my statements.

"But you deny being a sociopath."

He slid his index finger alongside his nose and pointed it at me. "Uh-huh."

I shook my head. Presumably, he knew the definition of the word _sociopath_. Presumably, he also knew how well it fit him. It didn't add up, and this was exactly how madness worked—facts were twisted to support the person in question's pet delusion (or set of delusions). The best way to respond to this was to repeatedly and gently lay the inconsistencies out for them to see—or better yet, let them do it themselves, and so I asked, "Why?"

He licked his lips again and twisted his head to the side, mocking my pose. He squinted at me, shaking that same index finger. "Youuuu people," he crooned. I waited, sensing more to come. He didn't disappoint.

He spread his fingers wide, showing his palms. "Alll-ways gotta be _pushing_ people into boxes, giving them _neat_ little labels. Ya never seem to realize… they _really_ aren't necessary. _Nobody_ _fits_."

"So, you fit the definition of a sociopath, you embody it in every conceivable way, but because you have a personal issue with the concept of attaching labels to people, you deny it?"

"I bet they have some labels for you," he said, eyeing me speculatively, blithely ignoring the question. "You headshrinks, you're the _worst_ of the bunch. What do they call _you_, huh?"

His eyes raked over me, just once. I forced myself not to flinch at the scrutiny. It felt like a violation of my privacy, which was ridiculous—he was only _looking,_ and again, there was no trace of lechery to spark any rational repulsion. Still… I'd have felt better if I didn't feel like he was on the hunt, picking hurts and fears out of my brain.

"Ohhh, they've got _names_ for you," he almost sang, his voice turning into a musical growl. I steeled myself in preparation for what he would say next—it was bound to be unpleasant. "What do they call you? A… opportunist? Social climber? _Rube_?" He leaned back, shook his lank hair out of his face, and licked his lips noisily. "These people are buh-_rutal._ You're too pretty to be smart, that's what they think. So how'd you manage to get… _me,_ the crown jewel of Arkham? You must have _blown_ your way up the ladder."

Even after having prepared myself for this, I had no control over the angry expression that I could feel crossing my face for just a split second. It had been implied before and it always infuriated me—I had worked hard to get where I was now. Hearing it from a decidedly more unsettling face than usual just made it worse.

He lifted his cuffed hands immediately in a sort of placating gesture, though he seemed a little too pleased by my knee-jerk reaction for his apologetic motions to be truly sincere. "_I'm_ not sayin' that's what happened. I'm just saying that's what _they _think. Because there's no denying that you're _pretty_—and I mean, that's why you're _here_. Isn't it?"

"What exactly do you mean?" I asked, ignoring his assessment of my looks. Most women who worked in close quarters with a lot of heavily medicated, sexually isolated men who were often literally incapable of understanding (let alone concerning themselves with) social courtesies had heard an entire range of creative suggestions, and for someone as young and blonde as I was… well, let's just say that the Joker's input on the matter was refreshingly, surprisingly clinical.

"Come on, Doc," he said, folding his lips together, tilting his head towards me, and raising his eyebrows, _let's be real here_. "You don't see what's going _on_?"

"I'd like to hear your take on the situation."

He paused, rolling his eyes thoughtfully towards the ceiling. "Uh… how long have I been here?"

"Three months," I said, lifting an eyebrow inquisitively.

He returned his eyes to me and pulled his lips back from deeply-stained (but oddly straight) teeth in a grin that wasn't quite a leer. "Right, right. Well, they're playing the _biological_ angle. Three months is, uh, is a long time for a guy to go without even _seeing_ a pretty girl." My other brow lifted to join the first. "I'm just sayin'. They haven't had any luck _fixing_ me so far, and suddenly they bring _you_ in… what are you, about twenty-five?"

"Almost twenty-seven," I said, keeping a steady eye on him.

He raised his eyebrows, leaned forward a little, and mouthed _really?_ I nodded, feeling a sudden vague temptation to make a face at him, and he shrugged and pulled back. "All right, so they bring _you_ in and…" He clicked his tongue, pointing at me. "Like dangling a hunk of _meat_ in front of a starving man. They _hope_."

"I don't think that's true at all," I replied. "In fact—" I paused, wondering for a moment if I should go on, if I should tell him anything he could use against me or the asylum, but he raised a responsive eyebrow and I decided to proceed cautiously. "In fact," I repeated, quieter, "I almost didn't get to come in today. They were worried that I wouldn't be able to handle it."

His lips moved briefly, inaudibly before he actually put some voice behind them. "Well, that just proves my _point_. Because it doesn't matter how _qualified_ you might be, how perfectly capable of... _handling it_. They'll look at you and see nothin' but..." He pointed emphatically at me, repeating the movement several times, almost scornfully, but I got the curious feeling that the contempt wasn't necessarily directed towards me. "_Cheerleader_," he pronounced eventually, meeting my eyes. "And you know why?"

"Why is that?"

"Because you fit the _label_." He drew out the last word so that I couldn't possibly miss his meaning.

"Point taken," I said softly. Something in me screamed _it isn't the same thing,_ but I didn't say that. He would make me explain, and I wasn't sure I could without some time away from him to think it through.

Before I could quite reorder my thoughts and proceed with the session, though, he changed tacks. He lunged suddenly at me, or feinted convincingly, at least. The cuffs were chained to the shackles on his feet, though, stopping his outstretched hands before they got halfway across the table, even with him lifting his feet to accommodate them.

Even though I _knew_ that he wasn't going anywhere, I lurched backwards instinctively, almost knocking my own chair over. The orderly pushed away from the wall where he'd been leaning, but I flung out a hand, stopping him as I regained my balance.

The Joker didn't laugh, as I half-expected him to do. Instead, he smiled a little, but it didn't look like a smile. He was baring his teeth more than anything else, a predatory move. It made the scars on his face crease and pucker hideously.

"Looks like somebody else beat me to it, doesn't it?" he said, reaching out and pointing one long index finger, indicating my throat, obviously talking about the bruises over my windpipe left from Crane's thumbs, the bruises I couldn't cover. "Who got a hold of _you,_ huh, Doc?"

I didn't answer right away. I wasn't sure whether or not it would be a wise move to divulge the truth.

_You're trying to hide yourself from him, remember?_ I asked myself. _What happened to that strategy?_

_Well, you see, I walked into the room…_

The Joker made a slight smacking sound, drawing his lips back over his teeth. "Whatareyou, masochistic?" he asked. "Do you need pain to _get off_?"

"Not exactly," I said, my mouth twisting into a smirk. _Way off, mister._

"No?" He sounded surprised, and a little disappointed. "That's a shame."

"Weren't you the one freaking out over labels just a second ago?" I questioned. "What's this 'masochistic' crap?" _Gotchya._

He squinted in disapproval, tilting his head. "No, no no nono_no_… you don't _get _it. You give me a label, you see, and try to pack _ev-e-ry_ little tendril of personality into it. If I'm a sociopath, then every li'l thing I do stems from _that_ diagnosis. If you said, though, that I was, uh…" He spun his left hand absently around as he searched for a word—"_mischievous,_ for example… well, that's different. Adjectives aren't _labels._"

I raised an eyebrow. He was talking grammar with me. This whole conversation… it was surreal. He seemed to read my mind, lifting his hands palms-out as though to defend himself against my negative thoughts. "Don't look at _me_. _I_ didn't bring it up again."

"A patient here gave me these," I said, indicating my throat again, steering us back on track. "An old friend. He had a psychotic break and thought I was out to get him."

"So he went _cuckoo_ on you?"

"More or less."

"Now, now." He _tsked_ at me, wagging his finger in mock disapproval. "Where's your professionalism, _doctor?_ Letting the patients take advantage of you—I might get _ideas._"

I shrugged. "Somehow, I get the impression that you're going to think whatever you want about me, no matter what I do." I met his eyes, and we stared at one another for a second, unblinking. Suddenly, though, he drew a long, hissing breath in through his teeth and sat up straight.

"So, Doc," he said, his wrists relaxed on the table's edge, fingers tapping idly at the surface. There were dark rings around his wrists beneath the metal, presumably from previous attempts to thwart his cuffs—_to scare his keepers, more like_. "If you don't think they sent you in 'cause you _look _the way you do, then why _are _you here, huh? You think _you're_ gonna be the one ta _fix_ me?"

"I'm not sure you're broken," I said bluntly, feeling that it would be prudent to conceal my real view on the subject, which was that he was batshit insane_._ He cocked his head sharply, as though this interested him. I continued when he didn't attempt to interrupt. "But for your sake, I hope you are. If we determine that you're not and this goes to court, then you're dead."

"How _suh-weet,_" he crooned softly. "Pretty little doctor, looking out for li'l old me. Is that why you're here? Why you took this… case?"

"I don't care whether you live or die," I answered frankly. "But you're fascinating, and you could make my career. So I have a personal stake in—"

I was interrupted by his sudden laughter. This wasn't the slight chortle or occasional giggle of before; this was a hyena-like howl that made my heart jump in fear. He rocked back and forth, pulling his hands close to his middle. He ran out of steam, gasped for air, and then howled again.

"Oh—oh, I _like_ you," he choked finally. "You—you're just a _go-getter._ The _honesty!_ Ohh, you're a _keeper._"

"Glad to have amused you," I said stiffly, uncomfortable now. I got the feeling that he was reeling me into something I did not want to be a part of, though I couldn't have told you why, couldn't have identified the source of the feeling.

He turned his head to the side again, showing only his profile, and winked very deliberately at me. "Stick around, kid," he said cheerfully.

"I intend to," I said softly. "As long as you keep talking to me, I'll be here."

"_Good_," he said, jerking his head back around. "Cause you're in for a whooooole bunch of surprises." His voice was suddenly lower, dark. I didn't like the change. It made me uncomfortable. I was about to shake it off, to try to move forward with the time I had, but the door opened and the two orderlies from outside stepped in.

"That's enough for today," the big orderly who had been in the room announced. "Time to go back to the cage."

The new orderlies got on either side of him, grabbing his arms none-too-gently and hoisting him up out of his chair. I opened my mouth to argue with them—we couldn't have been talking for more than ten minutes—but the Joker gave me a sharp grin that silenced me before I could begin.

"Don't be a stranger," he said, and was swiftly escorted from the room.

I sat there for a second, allowing the conversation that had just transpired to start sinking in. Then, I rose swiftly from my chair and rushed out. I nearly collided with Stratford in the doorway. "Whoa, easy!" he said, catching me by the shoulders. "Relax, it's over!"

"I know," I snapped. "Why on earth would you pull him out that early? I wasn't _nearly_ finished."

"Yes, you were," he said firmly.

"I was _not_," I said, feeling like a petulant child but too annoyed to care at the moment. "He was _talking_ to me, Stratford! We were _communicating, _and he _wasn't_ ripping me to shreds!"

"I _know, _Quinzel, I was watching," he said sharply. "But this was an introductory session. I didn't want to push it too far."

"But—"

"Would you stop acting like some wide-eyed sophomore and look at what we've accomplished?" he demanded, clearly exasperated. I shut up immediately, stung by the implication that my behavior was childish, and Stratford went on. "He _talked_ to you. He actually seemed interested in engaging this time around. Do you realize what this means?"

"Yeah," I said slowly and a little grimly as the full realization finally hit me. "I think I just became the Joker's new toy."

* * *

The rest of the day was utterly commonplace, and though I would have imagined that the familiarity of it all would be comforting, I found myself feeling restless. I was distracted during my other scheduled sessions, and so when I called an end to the last one in the middle of the afternoon, I breathed a sigh of relief and promptly confined myself in my office to tidy up some paperwork.

I left the asylum the moment the clock struck five and went straight home. There, I started the kettle, feeling a craving for Earl Grey after the day I'd had, and collected some notebook paper, gathering it all together in a plain black binder. When my tea was ready, I planted myself cross-legged in the middle of my bed and started writing down my observations from the session earlier.

I had added to the official case file on the Joker already, of course, but something told me that I would want to keep a more personal record, something stream-of-consciousness that would not be on file, something I could access whenever I had a new idea I wanted to spell out and explore. That was where the binder came into play.

I put the pen softly to paper, bore down, and scratched out a question for myself.

_Why does he talk the way he does?_

I pressed the pen to my lips and then returned it to the paper.

_It's peculiar; a very particular sort of backwards-and-forwards, rocking-horse cadence… he thinks about what he's saying before he says it and only very rarely does he say things all in a rush. All of the 'uh's and 'ah's would have one believe that he's not sure of what he's saying, but I think he adds them in on purpose. I can't help but feel that it's a sort of mockery of normal human speaking habits, of the natural pauses most of us take—by replicating them with such exaggeration, he could be actually distancing himself from the rest of humanity, making the point that they're only there in his speech because he wants them to be._

I tapped my pen absently against the paper, feeling my forehead bend into creases as I frowned. I leaned over to my bedside table and took a sip of tea, but almost as soon as my lips had left the cup's brim I jumped back to my binder.

_He takes his time talking, but his speech isn't necessarily slow. And since he appears to think out what he's going to say before he says it, how fast does that make his mind? He'd have to be incredibly quick if he really does think things through. That's a scary level of intelligence, especially in a_

I paused. Originally I was going to write 'maniac' or 'lunatic' or something of that sort. Something stopped me, though.

_criminal._

_And what reason did he have for not ripping me up and tossing me aside to lick my wounds? I saw the other tapes; he didn't spare anyone else and I have no doubt that he could have found a weakness and used it to repel me. So why didn't he?_

_One explanation is that he finds me attractive and would like to see me again, and so didn't try to scare me away. I am the youngest female shrink to talk to him, after all, and he used the word 'pretty' at least three times, even if he didn't come across as lewd. However, this is extremely unlikely. He doesn't strike me as a man governed by his more carnal impulses. I can only imagine that he's planning something, and for whatever reason, he wants to take me along for the ride._

I threw my head back, rubbing the crease between my eyebrows brutally. I was getting a tension headache. The thought I'd just written down worried me, and it didn't help my concentration any.

_Slow down,_ I thought. _Just breathe. You're over-thinking it._

I decided to go to something fairly uncomplicated until something clicked in my brain regarding the Joker and his plans. I chose physical appearance.

_His teeth—they're at odds. On the one hand, they're very straight—not so much as a crooked incisor among them, although his canines are rather feral. On the other hand, they're hideously stained. Coffee can do that to your teeth, so can cigarettes, but to that extent? I need to look that up. __It's possible that he stained them on purpose, which could lend some insight into his motivations. After all_, I don't see him as a nicotine slave… coffee, on the other hand, he might need in order to keep moving. He didn't seem particularly feisty today, but by all accounts outside of the asylum he's so energetic it's scary.

_He doesn't seem too concerned with personal hygiene. I couldn't smell him from where I was, but his hair didn't look like it had been washed in a good while, and the fact that his teeth are so stained… I can't imagine this man worrying about germs._

I let loose a giggle at the thought of a germaphobic Joker, and then immediately clamped my moth shut and scowled. I made efforts to _never_ giggle. True, I was alone at the moment, but if I let it slide in private life it could easily seep into public, and gigglers were never taken seriously.

A thought crossed my mind, and I frowned and made a note.

_He's way too thin. Check in on the records tomorrow; see how much he eats and when._

I tried to focus, but I found myself reverting to the same topic again and again: _Why does he want me as his therapist?_

_Am I a part of his plan? Does he even have a plan? With all that happened earlier this year, with all that played out to his advantage, I can't see him not having a huge agenda—frighteningly huge, as a matter of fact._

But things didn't add up. If he had such a plan, then why did he get caught? It wasn't for shits and giggles, I was fairly certain—he'd been at Arkham for three months. He'd made no moves. Maybe he was at a dead end.

Or maybe not.

I got no further that night. I ended up going to bed at nine with a splitting headache from the tension all the new stress was causing. Oddly enough, I didn't toss and turn for hours in bed. I fell asleep almost immediately and slept well and without dreams.

* * *

At Arkham Asylum, up on the top floor, where the most dangerous criminals were kept, the Joker was locked neatly away in his padded white cell. He didn't have so much as a barred window to give him a view of the rain outside.

No, the only view he had was afforded to him by the small pane of plexiglass, situated at eye level in the reinforced steel door. The Joker knew that they kept an eye on him via cameras, and thus didn't need to have him behind glass constantly, on display like an animal at the zoo. He also knew the cameras' exact blind spot (the bottom half of the corner nearest the door). He didn't bother with that on this night, though. On this night, he sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, his orange jumpsuit the only splash of real color in the sterile white room. He was playing solitaire.

Some terrified, awed young intern had given him the cards, leaving them in the room with him after a cleaning session, and since he hadn't displayed any genuinely violent impulses just yet, they didn't take them from him. It was as though they didn't have the imagination to think of what he could do with them.

He needed both hands to count the methods of mischief he could execute with solely the cards. He needed both sets of fingers and toes twice over to count the ways in which he could wreak various havoc in this asylum right now just in general.

"So, _why_ wait?" he muttered to himself. "_Wait, wait, wait._" His voice rose in pitch, rocking in a singsong rhythm as he said, "_All _good _things_ to _those_ who _wait._"

Simply put, it wasn't time. He hadn't quite settled on the technique by which he would get out of this little _sanctuary_. He had his reasons.

His entire body jerked as though it had been delivered an electric shock as a thought hit him.

_Pretty… little… doctor._

His scarred face remained unaltered, his black eyes the only things moving as they followed his hands working away at the cards, but inside he smiled at the thought.

Oh, he _liked_ her. Such an inquisitive little mind, still young, so… _flexible._ So much potential. It gave him goosebumps just thinking about it.

He now had something to amuse himself with. It made the waiting just a little more… fun.

_Harleen Quinzel._

_Harleeeeen… Quinzel._

_Harleen Quin._

_Harleen Quinn._

_Harley Quinzel._

_Harley… Quinn._

_Harley Quinn._

_Harleyquinn._

_Harlequin._

He tossed his head back and howled with laughter. He laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes, and then regaining his composure, temporarily at least, he returned to his game.

_She_ was the hidden element in this plan of his, though he hadn't known it before—for he didn't know _everything,_ not always, and sometimes parts of his plans were as invisible to him as they were to everyone else. His plans always worked, though, because he had an intimate knowledge of the fabric with which he was working. Because he understood chaos, chaos tended to favor him.

Yes, she had a part to play. He was going to immensely enjoy figuring out that part and setting her on the course.

It would be oh, so much fun.

He couldn't _wait._

* * *

**A/N - **I have hacked into my former neighbors' internet in order to bring you this little update, which I hope isn't too long overdue. A couple of things to address- first, I made a point of saying that Harley didn't sleep her way to her degree. While that works fine for the cartoon/comic book Harley, I feel that a Nolanverse Harley needs to have actually earned her degree, to actually have some idea of what she's doing. Toon Harley fell in love with the Joker almost instantly; with this Harley, it's going to be more of a drawn-out affair. It wouldn't be a challenge at all to the Joker otherwise, and I don't see him rising to the occasion if he doesn't feel a certain interest in the situation.

Also, before someone complains, the playing cards that the Joker has in his cell- I think it was my friend Chance who questioned them. He said he didn't think they'd allow the Joker to have any objects from outside. While I am inclined to agree at first, the "Joker" was playing solitaire at the beginning of The Killing Joke, in his cell in Arkham (Yes, it wasn't the real Joker, but still...), so it would be true to canon. Also, he hasn't killed anyone at Arkham (yet), so I think they would have relaxed enough to let him have a mere pack of cards. They're not an important plot point, but I could understand how some people might have a problem with it, so I decided I had better explain.


	4. why are the wicked so strong

**Chapter Four**

_You got to tell me brave captain,  
Why are the wicked so strong,  
How do the angels get to sleep,  
When the devil leaves the porch light on?  
_**-Tom Waits, _Mr. Siegal_**

A day passed in which Stratford would not allow me to see my new patient, and then another. I argued and fought him, but he steadily said that he and some other doctors were examining the footage of my previous session, and until they deemed it wise, I should not return to that room.

During the days, I attended to my usual duties. During my nights alone, I studied the Joker. I pulled some records at Arkham, and what I discovered worried me.

He ate, at most, one meal a day, and often days went by in which he left all his food untouched. He slept even more rarely than he ate, averaging one hour a night. With that marked lack of nutrition and rest, it was a wonder that he was still upright, let alone cutting into his therapists. His willpower must have been extraordinary.

I continued writing in my notebook, often scribbling down my thoughts until my middle finger was bruised from the pressure of the pen. I had a strategy now, at least, though I was no closer to deciphering the Joker's motives than I was to begin with.

I had decided that a conventional line of questioning, such as the ones employed by all of the Joker's previous therapists, would do more harm than good. He seemed to thrive on conversation, give-and-take, a sort of quid pro quo situation. From what I'd seen in the tapes, he was willing to talk only if he was getting something back in return, only if he was getting a good look inside of his examiner's head.

It was the exact opposite of what I'd been planning earlier—but that had been before I had actually met him, actually talked to him. Now, it seemed unlikely that he would share with me if I refused to do the same with him. I thought it was hardly unreasonable to adapt my strategy accordingly, at least until it was proven ineffective.

_Or until he reduces you to a heap of emotional rubble, _I couldn't help thinking. _Whatever happens first._

On the third morning, I was approached by Howard and informed that the Joker was waiting for me in the same examination room as before. I nearly knocked him over in my rush to get to the stairs.

Stratford was standing down the hall from the room, talking to a pair of nurses, and as I reached the door, he caught my eye. I stared at him, silently requesting permission, and he simply gave a grim nod. The orderlies guarding the door made no move to stop me as I twisted the knob and went inside.

He was stretched across the chair this time, his lower back pressed against one arm of his seat, the backs of his thighs pushed against the other arm, hands wedged between his knees to provide some slack on the chain that ran down to his ankles. Otherwise, it was the same setup as it had been before, down to the orderly standing guard over him. His head turned as I entered the room, and he let it loll sideways as I sat down across from him. He said nothing.

"Good morning," I greeted him pleasantly.

The Joker remained silent, just continued to let his eyes burn into mine. I shifted in my seat, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness. I'd been so focused on getting back into this room with him that I'd forgotten how intimidating his presence was.

"How—how are you doing?" I asked, well aware that the question was an utterly ridiculous one—but his stare drove all of the half-formed plans I'd made for this session out of my mind. I felt foolish right away, and his face remained expressionless. I cleared my throat and continued, if only to try to get some reaction from him. "Aside from being locked up in a giant cage, I mean. Have you eaten? Have you slept?"

He blinked once, slowly at me, smacked his lips twice, and then let his head hang backwards so that he was staring upside-down at the opposite wall.

I worried my bottom lip as I stared at him. The questions were getting me nowhere, and now that I was free of his stare I realized how utterly stupid I sounded. I glanced at the floor, casting about for the ideas that had deserted me as soon as I'd stepped through the door.

Before I could decide on a course of action, he spoke suddenly, startling me into looking up at him. "You're a _schemer,_ aren't you, Harley?" He turned his head to the side sharply. "You don't mind if I call you _Harley,_ do you? Dr. Quinzel just sounds so _frigid,_ and Harleen is just…" He caught his lower lip between his teeth, squinted, and shook his head in disapproval.

I looked steadily at him, not allowing myself to feel unnerved that he had just deciphered my preferred nickname so easily. _Just a coincidence,_ I told myself. After a moment's pause and some quick thought, I said, "You can call me Harley if you let me call you J."

In one swift, jerky movement, he twisted, slung his legs under the table, and sat up straight. He stretched a hand out towards me as far as he could, wagging his finger. "That's _Mister_ J to _you,_" he said. His tone was playful, which immediately put me on my guard, but I had initiated this game, and I'd be damned if I was going to back out just because I was scared of his rules.

"If you're Mister J, then I'm Doctor Harley," I said with a casual shrug.

The Joker studied me, his head cocked slightly sideways, his face creased in an unreadable smile that didn't reach his eyes. After a moment, he laced his fingers together and pointed both index fingers at me. "Well, _Harley,_ you're avoiding my _original_ question."

I blinked at him for a second before my mind caught up. "You asked if I was a schemer?"

"Mm-_hmm._" He gave a single, exaggerated nod.

I rested my eyes on the stretch of wall showing just above his left shoulder, plotting out my answer. His method of thinking before he spoke was a wise one and I couldn't afford to let him get the advantage, couldn't afford to let anything slip. I decided to emulate him, even at the risk of making my caution obvious.

Finally, I nodded. "Yes. I am, I think, insofar as anyone is a schemer."

He raised his eyebrows, making his forehead dive into a series of sharp furrows. "Not _better_ than anyone else? Not _worse?_"

"Well, we're all out for our own good, aren't we? Everyone's got motive behind what they do, and I'd say ninety-nine percent of the time that motive is selfish." I paused again, thinking some more as I chewed on my bottom lip absently. I found that averting my eyes from him when I spoke or thought helped some; it helped me retain some clarity so that I wasn't scared witless. I could almost pretend that he wasn't there. "It's—it's kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy. We look out for ourselves because no one else will, but no on else looks after us because they're busy looking after themselves, and so on."

"Do ya think that's _wrong_?" he asked softly. When I looked back at him, his eyes were still fixed on me.

I got the uncomfortable feeling that I had switched roles with my patient, and I immediately set about trying to get back on track. I gave him an uncomfortable smile. "Well, do _you_?"

"Ah, ah, _ah,_" he said, shaking his finger at me. "_I _wanna hear about _you_ now."

"But I'm not interesting," I protested, feeling whatever sense of imagined control I'd had before now slipping from just beneath my fingertips.

He lifted his eyebrows, simultaneously tilting his head sideways. His lips moved silently for a second as though he was grasping for something to say, and then he asked, "Says _who?_"

"Says me," I replied firmly. "I'm the shrink. I'm just kind of a… wax tablet for you to leave impressions in."

"So—so essentially," he said, lowering his eyes in thought, "you're here to _help_ me."

It was the simple obviousness of the statement that kept me from agreeing and shooting myself in the foot. I watched him uncertainly, feeling rather like a mouse unsure whether the cat across the yard was happy lying in the sun or whether it would want to _play_.

He raised his eyes to me again. "Huh?" he asked softly, prodding me for an answer.

I shook my head, at a loss. "The general consensus is that you're crazy. I'm here to see if that's the truth." He screwed his eyes shut, pursed his lips, and shook his head as though the suggestion pained him. I pursued it. "You would disagree with the suggestion that you're crazy?" I asked, leaning forward just a little bit.

"_Labels_," he snapped suddenly, his eyes shooting open. His hands flailed about as much as they were able as he snapped, "Labels, _labels._ We're back to _that_ again!"

"People like their labels," I said softly, watching his long fingers as they curled and flexed as though he'd like to get them around someone's throat. Around _my_ throat.

"Ya know, they _really_ need to learn to live without 'em," he said matter-of-factly. "I can see that. It's one of the reasons they think I'm _ca-razy._ It scares 'em. It scares 'em that I can see _all these things…_ that they've missed."

"You don't think that's kind of an egotistical perspective?"

He looked at me out of his left eye, grinning sarcastically. "False modesty, Harley. It doesn't become _anyone_."

This line of discussion was good. I wanted to pursue it, but his left index finger shot into the air, though, stopping me before I could ask anything else. "Back to my, uh, _original_ topic, though…"

My shoulders slumped microscopically as I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn't going to be able to dissuade him. He stared at me, the flicker of something that may have been triumph showing in his eyes, and went on:

"Is that selfishness you see in your fellow humans a _bad_ thing?" He was crooning at me, his voice higher and softer than his normal near-croak.

I crossed my arms and leaned back, pointing my toe towards the wall. I looked at the patch of wall above his left shoulder again. "Not up to a certain point," I said carefully, feeling as though I was being tested. "We need to survive, after all. That survival instinct is important; if we didn't have it then the human race would die out. But it escalates beyond that. It gets to a point where you're carelessly hurting other people with every choice you make. I think that's wrong."

"_Why?_" he asked softly. "They would do the same to _you._"

I switched my gaze, meeting his eyes head-on. I stared at him for a moment before shaking my head. "That doesn't make it right," I said quietly.

"Oh, I would disagree," he contradicted, twisting his head almost completely sideways and staring at the ceiling as though it would give way to some entity that could offer a definitive ruling on who had the better argument. "Who _really_ decides right and wrong?"

I shook my head. "No—you're operating on the assumption that it's a subjective thing," I argued. "You don't believe in universal right or universal wrong?"

_Of course he doesn't. Look who you're talking to, Harley._

He blinked deliberately at me. "I _believe_," he hummed, "that morality… is _fiction_."

I leaned back just a little bit. Of course, I had anticipated it. I'd read Nietzsche, I'd studied and debated nihilism, the idea that humanity had no purpose and therefore morality was simple vanity, but I'd never bought into it. Still, it made sense for him to subscribe to the idea. What did the Joker gain by believing in morality? Absolutely nothing. On the other hand, he had _everything_ to gain if he decided that the whole thing was just a farce made up to keep the good little humans in check.

I watched him and could see his tongue tracing the scars on the inside of his mouth. I nearly flinched, but restrained myself just in time. He continued, a glint to his eyes that hadn't been there before. "Oh, sure, it's _necessary_ for your average ma_jor_ity. Ya don't have some kinda governing code, everyone _dies_. At least, that's what… they… fear." He tipped his head sideways, resting his temple on the tip of his index finger.

"You disagree?" I was distantly aware that I should feel elated that I was the one asking questions again, but I was too captivated by the discussion to care much.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, closing his eyes and straightening up, as though drawn up towards the roof by an invisible cable. "Chaos is the _only_ way," he said, eyes still closed. "_Mankind…_" He opened his eyes and shook his head at me, pulling a disapproving expression as his words sped up. "Uh, mankind is just trying to _delay_ the inevitable. Putting up _governments,_ labeling and locking away people they find threatening—" here, he gestured around at the room we were in to drive his point home.

"It's not the natural order of things. The _current_ generation is only interested in _its _safety," he pointed out, returning his gaze to me. "It doesn't _care_ that when things inevitably crumble, when things finally _go to hell,_ its children… or its _children's _children…" He leaned back, crossing his wrists in a satisfied way.

I waited. He seemed to be lost in thought, so I leaned forward a little more, encouragingly. "Yes?"

"What?" His gaze had wandered, but it snapped back to me now. "Oh—um, they're done for."

I suddenly realized how we were positioned. He was leaning back, arms languidly half-crossed, while I leaned partially over the table, from the looks of it totally hanging on his words. I practically shot back into my chair as soon as the realization hit me, getting a chortle from him.

I took a second to recover myself, to dismiss the slightly disgruntled feelings that were flooding in as a result of the little body language gaffe, and then I said, "I disagree."

"Oh, _do_ ya, now?"

"I think the reason the world is going to hell isn't because hell is its natural state. I think the reason for all the turmoil is that people are getting worse—but they can get _better_, too. Human nature is selfish, it's difficult, but I think there are a lot of people working to counteract it and make the world a better place."

He snorted loudly, and I stared at him in surprise. He widened his eyes in innocence, as if to ask _who, me?_, but before I could point out that I was _right in front of him _and there was no way he could pretend he _hadn't _just made that noise, his gaze began darting around the room and he started humming to himself. I resigned myself to patient waiting, not sure if he was going to drop the argument or come up with a rebuttal but begrudgingly intrigued either way.

He cut himself off mid-note and focused his energy towards me again, extending a cautionary finger. "Think about _this._ If this little…" he gestured around—"_world_… of ours… if it's supposed to be some kinduva _haven_… then why is it so _hard_ to make it that way? Why have things just gotten _worse_ and _worse_ instead of any… _better_?"

"Who says the world _is _worse?" I countered swiftly. "There's always been warfare and disease and death—the way I see it, the world isn't any worse than it's always been. It's just _changed._"

There was a squelching sound as he pulled his upper lip back from his teeth momentarily, studying me, and then he held out a hand, index finger extended, and said, "The world _is _worse because there are more _people _on it now than ever before. _You're _the one who said human nature is _selfish_—how is a planet swarming with seven billion people who are _all _out for themselves _not _worse than one with only, say, uhh, _one _billion?"

"Not everyone is _just _out for themselves," I said. "Even selfish people usually care about someone."

"If you say so, Doc," he said, looking at me with a doubtful slant to his eyebrows that let me know he wasn't buying into it, was just saying that to humor me.

"Look, nobody said life was easy—" I began.

"Nah," he interrupted right away, scrunching up his nose. "But it _could_ be." He sighed, let his shoulder slump, and _tsked _lightly. "Those pesky _morals_."

He was wrong. He was wrong and I wanted to tell him exactly why, wanted to bring up all the times that the world and civilization had reinvented themselves and survived and moved forward, but the door burst open before I could organize my thoughts and come back with a good argument, and the two outside orderlies came swarming in again.

"Time to go," one announced unnecessarily. I sighed sharply, slumping in my chair, folding my arms almost sulkily.

The Joker stood and half-bowed with a very credible flourish, considering the fact that his hands were chained to his feet. "'Till we meet again," he said, his voice breaking off into a surprised bar of laughter as he was seized and muscled from the room.

I sat there, staring at the table, until Dr. Stratford came into the room and took the seat that the Joker had been occupying. I shifted my eyes then to him.

He laced his fingers together and rested them on the table, staring at his hands for a moment before he lifted his eyes up to me. "Quinzel… what was that?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, working to keep my face immobile. He was upset, I could tell, and I had a good idea as to why, but my policy was to never admit to guilt until I knew exactly what I was being accused of.

He gestured towards the door, through which the villain of the scene had just made his exit. "_That_," he practically snarled. "What, you've got… _nicknames_ for each other now? You're sitting there discussing _worldview_?"

"Yes. So? A patient's ideology can tell us a lot about the nature of his mind," I said, shaking my head, not understanding. I failed to see why he considered this a problem.

"_So,_" Stratford said, his voice lifting just a bit, "this is your _second_ session with him and it's already taking an unhealthy turn."

"Unhealthy?" I demanded incredulously.

"What would _you_ call it? It's completely unconventional, this method that you're using, and he's going to take advantage of it."

I was getting angry by then. My voice rose above his, unbidden, acerbic—and entirely too lacking in respect considering that I was a brand new psychologist speaking to my superior. "Unconventional. That's really rich, coming from you. If I remember correctly, when you took a more _conventional_ line of questioning with him, he shut you down so thoroughly that you wouldn't go anywhere _near_ him."

Stratford's eyes turned to ice. "You think he hasn't done the same to you because he _can't_?"

"No! No, I'm _not_ that arrogant!" I refuted vehemently. That seemed to calm him down a bit. He quit glaring and just looked intently at me. I took a couple of deep breaths, regaining my hold on my temper. I was on thin ice here, and I knew it—if I yelled again, I might as well start packing up my desk.

"I _know_ what he could do, Doctor. I look into that man's eyes, and…" I shook my head, unable to explain exactly what I felt, what I saw, but willing to try. "I know he could reach down inside of me, pluck out my deepest, darkest secrets, and use them against me, tear me apart. But he hasn't."

"And why do you think that is?" Stratford asked steadily.

"He's got an agenda," I answered with relative certainty.

"And do you really want to play into his hands like that?" he demanded.

"Look, it's not _about_ that!" I exclaimed, exasperated. "This was never about me or how I personally felt about this! It's about _him_. It's about getting a closer look at _him_. For some reason, he'll talk to me, and this is an opportunity you haven't been able to get with other therapists. Maybe it's not stories about his traumatic childhood, but…" I shook my head. "It's something. It's a little window inside of that mind of his."

"It's dangerous," Stratford said, very clearly.

"It would be dangerous no matter _who_ he was talking to. Or would you prefer a big strong _man_ went in?" I asked, trying to keep the bitterness at bay but not quite able, the Joker's opinion as to why I had been assigned to him ringing unbidden in my head. "Maybe we should get in touch with Batman. Who knows? He could have a degree in psychology."

"Quinzel, the fact that you're a woman has _nothing_ to do with this," Stratford said sharply.

"Then _what_?"

"You have relatively little experience. You came here fresh out of your internship. Your mind is still _very_ impressionable."

"What, you didn't think about this before?" I demanded, bypassing the insult.

"I did. I did, but I figured we'd see how it went."

"And?"

"And these two brief sessions alone are incredibly… unsettling. He's bending you, Quinzel. You're talking to him as though this brutal, sociopathic ideology of his is valid."

"You think adopting a holier-than-thou stance in this situation would be appropriate?" I demanded. "He's made it clear, sir. If we don't play by his rules, then he's not playing."

"A game with this man usually ends up with blood on the floor."

"Oh, what's he going to do to me?" I demanded in exasperation. "Every time I see him, he's chained up within an inch of his life, surrounded by orderlies. He only _once_ made a threatening move, and he knew nothing would come of it!"

"Once out of the _two_ times you've seen him?" Stratford asked pointedly.

"Look, I'm not going to fight with you over this anymore," I said, putting up my hands. "You assigned me to analyze him, and that's what I'm trying to do. If you've decided that you don't want me talking with him anymore, then there's not a thing I can do about it. But think about what's already happened. He talks to me. I'm not positive he'll do that for anybody else."

Stratford worked his jaw. "He doesn't scare you?"

"He _terrifies_ me," I tell him bluntly. "I can barely think straight when I'm looking right at him. But what he has to say is interesting enough to outweigh it."

"Huh." He worked his jaw some more. "I'll think about it," he said finally. "But I'm still not convinced that this really is the right course of action."

I gave him a slow nod. "All right," I said, refraining from pointing out that it might just be his _only _course of action, and he stood up. I cocked my head back and fixed him with a stare before he could leave. "But, Doctor Stratford, if you send me in there again, you'd better be prepared to quit fighting me and _stop _pulling me out after little ten-minute sessions. You'd better be prepared to do things my way. I can't do this with everyone breathing down my neck and telling me exactly how these encounters need to go."

He stared at me for a second, and seemed on the verge of saying something, of telling me just how arrogant it was that a puny _rube_ was making demands of him. In the end, though, he just nodded and left the room.

* * *

The moment I got home, I brewed some coffee and went straight for my notebook. I had some theories I was dying to get out on paper, dying to organize and see written down. Maybe I could make some sense of them.

_His view of human nature is very negative, very cynical. It's as though he believes that deep down, everyone is utterly wicked. He believes that the only thing keeping that deep dark evil suppressed is society and society's rules, and that without those rules, everyone would unleash their inner demons._

_What if he's right? It's a terrifying thought._

_He's not right, though. He can't be. If people are evil, then why are the rules in place to begin with? Wouldn't it benefit an evil species more to have no rules? That way, we could just indulge in anarchy and nihilism, function in a dog-eat-dog type of world._

No, that didn't work. Even as I wrote it down, my mind started coming up with ways to prove itself wrong, and I let my pen wander, scratching down the arguments as they came into my mind.

_But, then again, humans have an instinct for self-preservation that is usually stronger than anything else, even our ideas of good or evil, and we must realize than an anarchistic society would kill off all but the very strongest. The majority would understand that this would be a bad thing for them, and so they would conspire to create a society that would allow them to live, even if it meant repressing their purported evil instincts. Majority rules, after all._

_The Joker is a strong being, so it makes sense that he wishes to create a society that has no rules, as he would probably be at the top of the food chain in said society. Other, weaker people will not go for his ideas, because they know that they would be the ones that would be stepped on and slaughtered._

Ah. Now, _that_ made more sense. I was getting a good look at the situation now; I was understanding how he thought (in this case, at least) and why it didn't fly with everyone else.

_It isn't just the murder and the stealing. It's the fact that people are scared of him and his ideas. If anyone paid attention to his method of thinking, the world could spiral down into an utter and complete wasteland._

_But his ideas of human nature are utterly wrong, so there's no reason to be afraid, right? There's no reason to think that he'll get a big enough following to make a real difference. People aren't innately evil—so why is everyone so scared of his influence?_

_People aren't evil._

The tip of my pen paused on the period. There were too many unanswered questions about his ideology, and I hadn't spoken to him long enough to answer all of them. If I thought too much about them right now, when I had no way of solving them, they would drive me insane.

I put up the pen and the binder. I needed something to distract me, and I figured I knew just the thing. Ten minutes later, dressed in gym shorts and a tank top, hair properly ponytailed, I headed out to the Y, intending to dispel all this nervous energy with a decent workout.

* * *

**A/N** - I'm going to go ahead and cause some dissonance here by saying that my view of the world and its inhabitants is only slightly less harsh than the Joker's. Then again, my beliefs regarding God and His purposes are in direct conflict with that idea, and sometimes it's difficult to figure out how wicked people work with a good God. On that note, I'm interested in hearing what y'all think on the subject. Are people mostly good, mostly evil, or is it more of a tabula rasa thing? Nature, nurture, or both? Does anarchy and lawlessness really have a place and would the world be less interesting without it, or would the world be better all around? Come on, kids. Time for you to speak up. I seriously want to know.

Another update, in which we finally meet Pam Isley (aka Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn's best friend) and in which Stratford makes a dumb move, will be up in a few days. Until then, show some love! Reviewers are better than argyle socks (though I think J might disagree with that one)!


	5. it fears its own demise

**Chapter Five**

_The future sticks out its tongue  
in the eyes of the gentle past  
It fears its own demise but knows it cannot last  
_**-Sleepytime Gorilla Museum, _Phthisis_**

Around eleven thirty the next day, my cell phone rang. I in the middle of doing a quick write-up on a new patient I had been assigned (paranoid schizophrenic and would-be murderer, pretty normal stuff in Gotham and a rather transparent attempt by Stratford to keep me occupied while he hemmed and hawed) but I answered anyway, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear. "Hello?"

"Harley, sweetie!" Pam Isley's husky voice rolled over the line into my ear.

"Hey, Red," I said, feeling the tension in my shoulders relax just a little bit at the sound.

"You're getting to be a hard woman to reach. Don't tell me you haven't seen me on your missed calls list."

"Uh, yeah," I said, feeling suddenly sheepish. I'd had a few calls from her in the past days, but I'd never found the time to return them. "I've been busy."

"Don't tell me you've found a newer, cooler best friend," she teased.

I snorted. "Of _course_ not. As if anyone could be cooler than you." I threw a little bit of playful sycophancy in my tone, and it worked—she laughed delightedly, and I smiled, pausing to try and organize my thoughts before continuing. "It's just… wow, Red, you aren't going to _believe _what's happened over the past week."

"Right back at you, which leads me to think that this won't be a good conversation to have over the phone. Are you free for lunch?"

"Umm—" I glanced at the clock. I was due to take lunch in three minutes, and things had been unusually slow for me ever since I was assigned to the Joker—the occasional easy patient, a boatload of boring paperwork that had been delegated to me, that was about all. They wouldn't notice or care if I took a few extra minutes. "Yeah, I am, actually."

"Can you meet me at Charlie's in fifteen?"

"No problem."

"Okay, see you there."

"Bye."

I hung up and tossed my cell phone into my purse, and began gathering my stuff. Promptly at eleven-thirty, I was in my car and heading out of the Narrows to Charlie's.

Charlie's was a little diner just over the bridge. It had the disadvantages of being dangerously close to the Narrows and looking like a glorified storage facility, but this was countered by the distinct advantages of making the best bacon burger you ever tasted and an unusually friendly staff for a city place. It marked the midpoint between mine and Pam's places of employment, and so we met there for lunch relatively often.

It took me a little more than fifteen minutes to reach the diner—traffic over the bridge always sucked—so when I walked inside, I saw that Pam was already there, sitting in the furthest booth from the door.

I walked over till I was just behind her and, affecting a deep voice, I asked, "Hey, hot stuff—is this seat taken?"

Her head turned and I caught the flash of annoyance crossing her face until she realized it was me, and then the irritation disappeared and she let out a cheerful laugh, springing up from the booth to hug me. I squeezed her back. "Hey, Red," I said with a grin. "Long time, no see."

"I know," she said. "Not my fault."

I slid into the booth opposite her and rested my chin on my palms, grinning despite the slight reproach in her tone. I always forgot how much I valued my best friend during the work-filled weeks when I didn't get to see her, but seeing her again always brought it back in a rush. In Gotham City, the value of a good friend could not be overstated.

I met Pam on my first day at Arkham—a chaotic day, to put it lightly. She was there to perform some tests on a newly-admitted patient, one who had been exposed to some toxins, and I was supposed to follow her around and help her with anything she needed. She seemed perfectly at ease in the Arkham infirmary and didn't seem to need my help in the least, and so, being of a disposition that abhorred long silences in the presence of strangers (not necessarily because the silence itself made _me _uncomfortable, but because I worried that it was making _them _uncomfortable, which in turn, made me uncomfortable), I hovered at her elbow and kept up an unending stream of conversation. I worried the entire time that I was annoying her, but she didn't tell me to shut up, and later on, during a wine-and-romantic-drama-film girls' night in, she told me that she was glad I'd been so chatty, since she felt awkward with the silence (_I knew it_) but that she was so reserved upon meeting new people that she rarely felt comfortable trying to fill it.

I found out that she was a botanist, specializing in plant and animal-based toxins, hence her appearance at Arkham. She was into plants. Like, seriously—I'd never met someone so very, very absorbed with environmentalism and the earth. She kept a notebook in the olive green eco-friendly tote she carried in lieu of a purse, and she was constantly digging it out, flipping it open to write down theorems about plant hybrids or potential new strains or uses for existing plants. Seriously, this woman loved plants the way other single women loved cats, stereotypically speaking.

Me, I wasn't so much into plants. Where her thumb was green, mine was red. I could barely keep a cactus alive. I would much rather talk about mental disorders.

Even despite having radically different primary interests, we bonded strongly over our considerable common ground—we were both single women living alone in a big, scary city. Neither of us intended to be intimidated by this fact. We both had our doubts about people—she couldn't understand why the human race would abuse and kill off the resources that had taken care of them for so long; I didn't understand why how people could be so cruel to one another, how parents could increasingly and willfully cause so much trauma to their own children that those children ended up doing horrible things and sitting in counseling with _me_ twenty years later.

Pam was scary-smart, too, and gorgeous to boot. She had legs a mile long, thick red hair, stunning green eyes hidden behind smart, black-framed glasses, and pale skin without a freckle to be seen—I had never met someone who looked more like a supermodel, and in my opinion, her elfin, elegant beauty far outstripped my cutesy, curvy shortness. Fortunately, vanity was not an issue with her. She didn't even wear makeup most of the time, due to animal testing (not as huge a priority with her as deforestation, but still an issue) and her problems with the fact that "we're expected to get all painted up every single day just so we can be objectified _even more than we already are._" I fully supported her stance, but I also privately thought that it was easy for a woman as naturally beautiful as Pamela Isley to go without makeup.

No sooner had I taken the seat across from her than our usual waitress, Kat, came to take our drink orders (lemonade for me, water for Pam). As soon as Kat left, Pam fixed me with a stare. "Tell me your news," she demanded.

I grinned and shook my head. "You first," I ordered, just as bossily. I could see that she was brimming with excitement, ready to tell me, and I knew that if I started talking about my new patient I wouldn't be able to shut up long enough to listen to her. The Joker could wait.

"I'm going to Egypt," she announced, trying not to smirk and failing.

My jaw dropped. "What?!"

She let out a peal of laughter that had several of the rough-looking men in the diner turning their heads. "You're catching flies, Harley. It's only temporary, a week or two at the most."

"Wh—I mean, that's fantastic news, but why?"

"Dr. Woodrue—" she said, making a slight face (Woodrue was her boss; she wasn't particularly fond of him and had made it clear to me in private that she thought he was incompetent and a pseudo-intellectual)—"has been invited to examine some recently-unearthed Egyptian artifact, a casket from the era of Rameses II. It's said to contain, in part, some ancient strains of herbs that would be extinct now." She was practically vibrating with excitement—plants got her so excited; I just didn't quite understand. "They need a specialist to see if they can use them to revive these strains, so he asked me to come along."

I laughed. "A botanist's dream date," I teased her.

She made a face. "Ugh," she groaned. "_Don't _rub it in. I'm not at all excited about the Woodrue-coming-along aspect of this trip. Granted, I don't think he has any unprofessional intentions, but even so… if I wasn't a hundred percent sure I could take care of myself, I wouldn't have agreed to go along."

"You're one of the most capable people I know, Red, and I'm sure everything will go perfectly," I said sincerely. "This is a great opportunity for you. When do you leave?"

"Not till next month," she said, modestly inclining her head. "I only just found out today."

Kat returned with our drinks, and I smiled at her before grabbing my lemonade. "I'm proud of you," I said, toasting my friend.

She was smirking like a satisfied cat at the reception of her news, but she made an attempt to nod modestly. "So that's my big story. What's yours?"

I paused, stirring my drink with my straw. I hadn't really thought through how I was going to tell her this—I realized that it was considerably less cut-and-dry than _I've got a new patient that might make my career, _what with the constantly-looming danger and the troubles I was encountering with my superiors. "Um," I said. "You know how we're detaining the Joker in Arkham at the moment?"

She raised one delicate eyebrow. "They're putting off his trial until someone can come up with a comprehensive analysis of his mental state, right?"

I nodded once, slowly. I chewed on my bottom lip for a second and then asked, "Guess who they've assigned to his case?"

For a second, she didn't move, didn't make a sound. The only noise came from the other murmuring patrons and the slightly louder jukebox, jovially playing Bobby Darin's _Beyond_ _the_ _Sea_. "Harley," she said finally, "are you telling me they've got you in there analyzing that man?"

I nodded, watching her warily. "Are they crazy?" she asked flatly.

_Okay, not going to pretend that didn't hurt._ I blinked and leaned back a little bit, and Pam quickly realized her mistake, reaching out to grab one of my hands.

"Oh, honey, I didn't mean it like that! I _know_ how smart you are—I wasn't implying you aren't capable of dealing with it! But, Harl, he's a _murderer._ He's _dangerous_—what are they _thinking?_"

"Most of the patients in Arkham are dangerous," I said a little shortly, still stung by her initial reaction. "I haven't heard you worrying about me working with _them_." She dropped her head humbly, and I rubbed the bridge of my nose and pulled in a breath. I was overreacting. It was clear that she hadn't meant any offense, so I continued, a little calmer now. "Red, I'm not going to lie, he scares me to death. Being in the same room as he is… it's absolutely draining. But he _talks_ to me—he talks _with_ me, in a way that he hasn't talked to any of the other therapists who have tried to examine him. I don't know… it feels like he's made a conscious decision to let me see more than he's shown to anyone else."

"Well, how many sessions have you had?"

"Two," I confessed. "I know, it's not really enough to judge—but he tore everyone else to shreds within ten minutes. He must have gone through nine, ten shrinks this way, Red, _trained _psychiatrists who are supposed to be able to _handle _that sort of behavior—can you blame me for getting excited that he hasn't done the same to me?"

"He has his reasons," she said cautiously.

"Of course he does," I said with a touch of exasperation. "For all the talk about anarchy and chaos, I think he's got a very precise agenda, and if this pattern continues then it probably means I fit in there somewhere—"

"And that doesn't _scare_ you?" she interjected.

"—but look at what's happening in the meantime!" I continued, ignoring the interruption. "I'm getting a look at him. Maybe it isn't a really _good_ look, but it's closer than anyone else has gotten, that's certain. And this man's mind… it's as fascinating as it is scary."

She drew back her hand. "Huh."

I had her attention now, and I kept talking. "He's _so_ smart… I mean, I wish the _normal_ guys I know had _half_ of his mind. He's a master at debate… his ideas are so strange, but when you hear them straight from him, they make so much _sense._ Even when I know he's preaching something crazy, he still makes it seem sensible. It's like the crazy is the side-effect, and he doesn't give a shit because crazy isn't crazy if you see things the way they're meant to be seen. That's how he thinks, anyway."

"You _like_ him," Pam said suddenly.

That shocked me into wide-eyed silence for a full five seconds, after which I recovered enough to glare fiercely at her. "_Pamela Isley._ What on _earth_ are you talking about?"

She shook her head at me. "Don't even _think_ about it, Harley," she said.

"About _what_?"

"Denying it. I can sniff out attraction faster than biotrophic fungi in my orchids—"

"Is that a euphemism for something?" I sniped, and she glowered at me, continuing on as if I hadn't interjected.

"—and you _reek_ of it right now." I made a short, indignant, high-pitched sound, and she rolled her eyes. "You had this same exact look on your face when you first told me about Dr. Stratford. Something about the Joker draws you in."

"I'm going to see if I can shuffle my schedule around to make room for you, Pammy, because you're _out of your mind._"

"Oh, you might not be _romantically_ attracted to him." She paused, and I sensed her unspoken words as clearly as if she'd shouted them: _Not __yet__, at least._ "But," she resumed, "you _are_ drawn to him—to his _mind_, at least." She paused, thinking, and then added: "Which is disturbing if you think about it. I mean, if a mind as twisted as his is appealing to you, what does that say about you?"

My stunning comeback: "Whatever." Her lips jerked downward, as if she was so desperately trying not to smile that she was drastically overcompensating, and my hands flailed about as I tried to recover. "Red_, _I'm a _criminal psychologist. _I'm absolutely supposed to find thoroughly-twisted minds intriguing, that's literally _my_ _job, _but only so that I can figure out how to… help my patients unknot their delusions and smooth all the kinks out."

"_Kinks_," she said pointedly.

"_Red_."

She waved her hand in the air dismissively. "Oh, relax. I know you're not going to develop an actual crush on a psychotic domestic terrorist—"

"—one who also happens to be my _patient_," I interjected.

"—and in the _extremely unlikely_ event that you _did,_ it's not like there's the remotest possibility that anything would come of it. He's locked up tight, and your bosses would probably see it before _you_ did and pull you out of there. Still. Do me a favor: watch your step. Don't work so hard at getting into his mind that you get stuck there."

I crossed my arms, leaned back in my seat, and muttered, "I don't see that there's anything to be careful _about_, but fine."

She regarded me with a slightly gaping mouth. "I don't think I've ever _seen _you this sulky."

"I'm not sulking!"

"Oh, yes you are."

"Oh, yes you are," I mimicked.

"Oh, wow, we went really mature with that one," she mumbled to the glass of water she was bringing to her mouth.

"Really mature with that one," I echoed in a less-than-flattering imitation of her voice, which was naturally a little deeper than mine.

Her forehead furrowed. "_How_ has the Joker not killed you yet?"

I laughed, remembered that I should be offended, said "_Hey_—" and then started cackling again. Still, I couldn't just let her get away with it, couldn't let her sit there with that self-satisfied smirk on her face, so I managed to choke out, "You can be _so _bitchy sometimes."

"And I take _that_ as a compliment, considering that _bitchy _is usually code for _doesn't put up with any shit_. You have your bitchy moments as well, if you remember correctly. Do I need to bring up a certain night involving a lot of champagne, high heels, and a very wronged Venus Flytrap?"

I couldn't help it; I laughed. "Not fair."

She shrugged. "_All_ is fair in love and war, and I believe I declared war on you for that incident."

I laughed again. "What am I going to do while you're gone, Red?"

She smirked back at me. "You seemed to manage quite well earlier this week. Run to your new patient. Copious _study _of his… _kinky mind_ can comfort you, I'm sure."

"_Red_!" I growled, and she winked as she took another sip of water. Cheeky bitch.

* * *

Pam had allowed me to shrug off her suppositions, but even so, I had trouble sleeping that night. The idea troubled me. I had always thought that I was relatively normal, relationship-wise—aside from not having had many to speak of, that is. But this… this was far from normal.

One would have to be a masochist to be attracted to the Joker, and masochistic I wasn't. Hell, _attracted _I wasn't. So, yes, I had enjoyed our two sessions almost as much as I feared them, but only because he was such a conundrum. Despite the limitless variations that existed from person to person, most mental illness was not difficult to diagnose—it was the treatment that posed the problem.

The Joker, though, was entirely different from any other patient I'd encountered. There were several diagnoses that applied to some of his tendencies, but not a single one that covered them all. If anything, his mind contained a sort of rat-king of mental illness, and the idea of trying to untangle and understand them all (and therefore understand _him, _a result that was more tempting with each day that passed) was an attractive one.

That attraction, however, did _not _extend beyond past a professional level. _No matter what Red and her biotrophic fungi say._

Because of the restless night and resulting lack of sleep, I was already grumpy when I rolled into Arkham in the morning. My foul mood was compounded when I arrived at Stratford's office to see if I would be allowed more time with the Joker today only to discover that he was holed up with a very attractive young woman in a doctor's coat.

"Ah, Dr. Quinzel," he said, spotting me before I could skulk away. "Come meet Dr. Fletcher."

I entered the room and looked the woman over. She was essentially my physical opposite the—tall, a bigger bone structure, dark skin, brown eyes, and confident. This was no resident, no college girl fresh from school. "Hello," I said politely, trying to control the sinking feeling in my stomach.

"Dr. Quinzel has had a few sessions with him," Stratford said to her as she nodded at me. "Her observations are in the case file."

"Um, excuse me," I interjected, resisting the temptation to raise my hand sarcastically. "What's going on?" I tried hard to keep my voice neutral instead of accusatory, but I'm sure he saw the look in my eyes, because he glanced quickly away from me and towards Dr. Fletcher again.

"Ah, Dr. Fletcher is the director of the state asylum," he said with false brightness. "She's come to conduct a few sessions with the Joker."

I stared unblinkingly at him, refusing to look at her, willing him to meet my gaze, and became convinced he was intentionally avoiding it when he didn't so much as glance in my direction. "Really," I said softly, though my mind was in turmoil.

_No. No. He's __my__ patient, dammit—if you palm him off to some other doctor then bad things are going to happen. Why don't you understand that? _A completely irrational wave of jealousy washed over me, blending with my thoughts and twisting them into a more selfish direction:_ What if he gets along with her? Decides she's more fun to play around with? I'll just get thrown out on my butt, hitched to the next __utterly boring__ case to come along. This is unbelievable._

"Doctor?" he said, still looking at her. "He's waiting for you."

"Excellent," she said. Her voice was smooth, mellow—calming. Great in a therapist. "It was nice meeting you, Doctor Quinzel."

"Likewise," I forced out. She and Stratford walked past me, heading for the elevator that would presumably take them to the same examination room _I'd _met him in. I waited until the elevator collected them, and then bolted to the ladies' restroom.

It was empty. I planted my fists on the counter and glared at my reflection. "_What_ does he think he's _doing_?" I snarled to myself, since I was the only one I could talk to right now. "This can _only_ end badly."

_Yeah—badly for the Asylum, or badly for you. Not both._

I glared even more viciously at myself for coming up with that thought. It was true. Either he'd tear her up like he had done to the therapists before me, in which case the asylum would promptly put me back on the case… or he'd toy with her, talk to her like he had to me, in which case I probably would never get to talk to him again and he'd get sent to his death… or some form of electro-shock therapy. Same thing, according to some.

My lip was hitched in a feral snarl. Some part of me was frightened by my own anger—I wasn't prone to frequent losses of temper, but it seemed that I was arguing and yelling more than ever since I'd taken on this case.

For one brief second, I lost control.

I lashed out with my right fist, hitting the mirror as hard as I could. The glass splintered into a spiderweb of pieces, and I got a couple of shards in my fist as my reflection disappeared.

I immediately snatched my hand back, bending protectively over it and hissing in pain. I hadn't thought the move through, and now I was paranoid, worried that someone would come in. Quickly, I grabbed some paper towels and wiped the center of the web, collecting the few drops of blood that remained and then pushing them down into the garbage can. I grabbed another one, wrapped it around my knuckles, and hurried out of the room before anyone came in and saw what I had done.

"Genius move, Harley," I muttered to myself as I rushed along the halls, heading quickly for the infirmary.

There were two nurses there, but they were treating an inmate with a gash in his eyebrow and barely noticed me—I hid my bloodied hand behind my back as one of them acknowledged me with a brief nod. I went to the cabinet where the practical bandages were kept and collected a few before slipping out again. I had gotten lucky—neither nurse had the time to speak to me.

I went to a different restroom to rinse off my hand. I wasn't bleeding much—not dripping so much as seeping. I cleaned off most of the blood and then wrapped my knuckles in bandages. It was a little awkward, doing it one-handed, but I managed to tape it down.

I'd been particularly injury prone over the last week or two. First the bruises, which I had been keeping covered with scarves and by leaving my hair down—now this. It served me right for losing control like that. I could only hope that I was able to play it off, come up with a convincing lie for my torn hand.

I felt my back pocket vibrating—my cell phone. I finished up with the bandage and quickly fished it out of my pocket with a free hand.

It was a text from Pam. I flipped the phone open to read the following: **Anything to report on the clown?**

I quickly spelled out a response: _**They've got someone else looking at him right now.**_

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and left the bathroom. I decided to go to Dr. Fitzhugh, one of our older doctors on staff, to see if she could find something for me to do. My assignments had been few and far between since I'd started with the Joker—lately it had been a blessing, since I hadn't wanted to focus on anything else, but I was starting to feel like I never _worked_ anymore, and at the very least, it might distract me.

Unfortunately, my track record wasn't about to get any better. I was talking with Fitzhugh, who was about to assign me as a substitute for one of the doctors who had called in sick, when a nurse I didn't recognize approached us.

"Doctors? Dr. Stratford wants you in the conference room on third… quickly, he said."

I frowned. It had only been fifteen minutes at most since he and Fletcher had been in his office; surely he would want to monitor her session like he did mine? I wouldn't think he'd pull her out as quickly as he did me. She was more experienced, after all.

_Maybe she insisted on not being watched. Or maybe… maybe it's over already._

My heart started pumping faster as we exchanged glances and, in unison, headed for the conference room. I almost didn't notice my phone, vibrating in my back pocket again.

**What? Who?**

I texted her back as we stepped onto the elevator: _**Some doctor from State. More later, busy now.**_

When we reached the conference room, it was in uproar. There were about four other doctors there, aside from me, Fitzhugh, and Stratford, and everybody was talking at once. Stratford was standing at the head of the table. When I walked in, right behind Dr. Fitzhugh, everybody got quiet.

_Okay. Not good._

Dr. Laurence was closest to me. I leaned to him. "What happened?" I asked softly. He started to answer, but Stratford's voice rang out instead. He had clearly anticipated my question.

"The Joker just attacked Dr. Fletcher."

I stared at him for a second as the information sank in, and then asked, "_What_? What happened to his restraints?

Stratford looked tenser than I'd ever seen him. "He was restrained as usual, but it didn't help. Ten minutes in, he threw his legs on the table and launched himself across at her, using the extra slack. He got her around the throat and pulled out a lot of hair."

"Is she okay?" asked Fitzhugh, her face twisted in a mixture of concern and repulsion.

Stratford sighed. "She'll be all right, but I doubt she'll be returning anytime soon."

Dr. Wilson spoke up from the corner where he was standing. "Other than that, how did the session go?" His voice was mild, and I had to look to make sure he was actually consciously joking.

Stratford didn't crack a smile. His forehead creased, and he scratched the table with a fingernail. "He was non-communicative for the first few minutes, then interrupted her mid-question to ask about Dr. Quinzel."

I tried not to react as everyone collectively glanced at me. I just watched Stratford, who was telling his story to the tabletop. "He wanted to know where she was, and Fletcher told him that she was preoccupied and so she'd be filling in. He seemed offended by that. She kept trying to get the session back on point, but he refused to let her change the subject—he just kept pushing until she finally told him firmly that Quinzel would work with him again when the Asylum decided it was the right time, and not a minute sooner. He laughed at her and then attacked."

There was a long pause, and I became aware that my breathing had picked up. It felt like fear, only… not. I realized, not without a certain degree of horror, that I was at least a little bit _happy _about this. Not that he had hurt Fletcher—no, that was awful, but… I couldn't help but feel just the _tiniest _bit satisfied that he had so completely rejected her, obviously in favor of me.

"So what do we do now?" asked Wilson finally. "Dr. Quinzel is the only one who's had any luck with him, but the fact that he's so fixed on her… it can't be good for his overall mental health."

"_What_ mental health?" mumbled Dr. Laurence, but I was the only one close enough to him to catch it.

Wilson, at any rate, didn't act as if he'd heard. "I don't know if sending her in again is the best idea."

Stratford stared directly at me. "I agree," he said. "We want them to trust us, but to depend too much on a single person… it can cause problems down the road."

I cleared my throat, trying to will down the sudden surge of annoyance and keep my tone clear. "Granted, sir, but this isn't a long-term treatment—at least, not yet," I said clearly. "This is just a comprehensive analysis for the court, and respectfully I'd like to remind you that no one else has gotten more than a few insults out of him."

"Even so. I want to try a few other people first to make sure you're the only option we've got," he said, which did not help with the choking annoyance. _Flattering, Doctor, _I thought, trying not to glare at him.

All at once, though, a nurse came bursting into the room to throw a wrench in his oh-so-diplomatic plan. "Dr. Stratford," she said breathlessly, "the Joker is having a violent fit in his cell. He's doing harm to himself."

"What?" demanded Stratford. "I thought I ordered him handcuffed to the bed." Straitjackets, you see, were in short supply—at least, that was what the orderlies claimed. I found it interesting that not even the toughest orderly was eager to volunteer to force the Joker into one. Padded restraints were available, but they had to be brought in from the infirmary and I imagine Stratford had ordered for cuffs because they were the quickest option available after the incident with Fletcher.

"He is, sir," she said, sounding petrified. "He keeps jerking at the cuff. He's ripped the skin on his arm open already—"

"Why the hell haven't you sedated him?" snarled Stratford.

"We gave him a heavy dose of Thorazine when we first confined him," she said, sounding terrified. "It only seemed to trigger him. He's pushing through it, and mixing with another sedative or upping the dosage could be dangerous."

Stratford made a split second decision. "You," he snapped, pointing at me. "Go calm him down, _now_. Wilson, go with her. Stand outside and pull her out if you need to. You—" pointing at the nurse—"get another dose ready. If she can't calm him down, I want you to be ready to go in."

I didn't wait for him to finish issuing his orders. I bolted, Wilson hot on my heels, and took the elevator to the top floor.

His was the last cell on the left. I could hear the commotion coming from it, and waited with palpable impatience as Wilson keyed in the code. I admit that I peeked, but I was only able to garner the last two letters before the door unlocked.

Quickly, I fished my phone out of my pocket and turned it off—I knew the Joker was restrained, but I did not want to take chances. I held it out to Wilson. "Hold on to that for me, please?" He took it, attempting an encouraging smile. I smiled briefly back and didn't wait any longer. I flung the door open and went inside.

* * *

**A/N** – (Waves abashedly from behind a large cup of coffee) Sorry. No Joker, except by mention. Every now and again we have to step back from him and develop pre-criminal Harley a little bit. One second, the voices in my head are talking… oh, yes, the Joker was just boasting about how he was already getting under her ski-iin. He's a bit too amused by his own work, but hey, that's what you get with him.

I have to say, I loved the reviews I got for the last chapter—y'all all had some really interesting things to say, and the ideas you all put forward were expressed beautifully. My views are different from most of yours, but that doesn't mean that I didn't truly love reading what you had to say and taking it into consideration. I don't think people talk about important things nearly enough in our present society.

Oops. Forgot to apologize for the cliffhanger. I'm sorry? If it's any consolation, I intend on updating pretty quickly and the next chapter will be… interesting. I think you'll like it. You'll definitely get more for brightening my days, guys and girls!


	6. you got a reaction, didn't you?

**Chapter Six**

_You got a reaction  
You got a reaction, didn't you?  
_**-The White Stripes, _Blue Orchid_**

The second I stepped through the door, the noise stopped. I took advantage of the moment of calm, indulging my curiosity and taking a look around.

It was the average high-security cell. No big plexiglass window, padded white on the walls, and very secure, all things considered. Almost completely bare. There was a toilet behind a screen in one corner and a deck of cards scattered over the floor. My gaze traveled to my feet, and I realized I had stepped on one of the joker cards.

I looked up to the back left corner of the room, where the steel cot was. He was lying there, completely still, his right wrist chained to the frame. The skin around the cuff was torn and dripping blood onto the sterile floor. I didn't know what he had been trying to accomplish—the bed frame was bolted to the floor; there was no way he was getting out. Considering that he was lying on his back on the cot, though it appeared that escape was not his motive.

His eyes were fixed on me, and as I slowly met his gaze, he purred, "_There_ you are."

"What are you doing?" I asked flatly.

His eyes widened innocently and he sat up on the bed, resting his back against the wall. "_Me_?" he asked, gesturing slowly to himself with his free hand, as though I had other people I should be worried about.

"Yes, _you_. Look at you. You've torn the shit out of your wrist—what are you trying to accomplish?"

"Aww," he crooned, his voice soft, dangerous. "_Worried_ about me, Doc?"

The question actually gave me a second's pause. Why did the sight of his blood disturb me so much? Why did it have me so pissed off? _Damn you, Red. You've got me overanalyzing everything._

"Not exactly," I said in an attempt to be as bland as I could, crossing my arms and shifting my weight to one leg, settling into my hip. "Thorazine?"

He shot me a half-scowl, brows lowered, disappointed that I even had to ask. "Come on. You think everyone would be scared _shitless_ of me if I had trouble working through one _little _sedative? No, Harley, I'm just… _floating _right now, is all." It was true that his movements were a little more lethargic than usual, his voice pitched a bit deeper and words paced slower, but he was quite clearly fully conscious and in control.

"Duly noted. I'll have them up the dosage. So, Dr. Fletcher. What, you have to deal with another shrink and you throw a _tantrum?_"

His eyes took on a certain diabolical light; his face creased into one of his smiles. "Ya know, funny thing about that—"

"You _attacked_ her," I interrupted.

He shrugged. "Wul, I didn't _like_ her. _You _smell like blood."

I blinked, taken off-guard by the abrupt change of subject even though I most definitely shouldn't have been. He was staring fixedly at my bandaged hand. I shook my head and swiftly said, "You're one to talk. Don't change the subject."

"Ah, I'm sorry," he said, sarcasm rolling off of him. "We were talking about Doctor Fletcher_. _I _told _you. I didn't _like _her."

I bent my head to the floor, studying the playing card at my feet. After a second, I raised my eyes to his, and the question came, unbidden, from my mouth: "Why?"

He watched me for another beat, and then a trace of a smirk came over his face. "Ahh," he said, settling his head back against the wall. "You're wondering why you haven't gotten that same… _special_ treatment."

"No," I denied hotly, but he was already shaking a finger at me disapprovingly.

"You're a _big_ girl, Harley—lies don't _become_ you. And I'm gonna be nice and answer the, uh, the _question_ that you're too scared to ask."

I waited. When he slouched further and it became clear that he was waiting for something, I snapped, "Well?"

His eyes crinkled, and I could see them taunting me—_gotchya_, they said."You've got _potential,_ kid. You're not like these, uhh…" He glanced around and shook his head. "These _other_ doctors, I mean, _they're _just puppets, complete with sticks up their asses. You, now, you're still not sure that _your _ideas are the best. So you _listen._"

I was contemplating this when he casually adjusted his sleeve and added, "And, uh, there's the fact that you're… well, utterly _fascinated_ by me."

My jaw dropped. "Now, wait just _one_ second—"

"Mm-mmm," he hummed tauntingly, wagging a finger at me again. He bared those yellow teeth in what might possibly be a smile and said, "Tell the _truth,_ Harley."

I paused, doing some quick self-examination. Well, _yeah,_ he enthralled me. People who were utterly different usually did, provided that they weren't dangerous, and while he was certainly dangerous, he was also restrained.

"Yes, you fascinate me," I said finally, biting off each word as though it cost me dearly to admit it. I still wasn't sure that it wouldn't. "Of course you do. Look at you. I mean, _look_ at you…"

I did. I trailed off and just stared. He stared back, his eyes heavy-lidded, half shut, and he lazily licked his lips, as though the scrutiny was totally ordinary. Then again, it probably was for him, with him looking the way he did…

I'd never seen him personally in full makeup, though I'd seen the snatches of videos—seconds of footage that made him look inhuman, like something that transcended mortality. Even looking at him _without_ the makeup on, I had often absently wondered if touching him would yield solid, warm flesh, or if my hand would go right through him.

All I saw now was flesh, bone, blood, and scars—a disfigured human face that at one point could have been devastatingly handsome, framed by matted, vaguely brown-yellow-green hair. And, looking at it now, I found it far from repulsive.

I found myself wondering about his history, not for the first time. Talking to him, it was hard to imagine that he _had_ one—it was tempting to see him as just an entity, not a human. But no, at some time he must have had a normal face, probably a normal life. I narrowed my eyes a little and tilted my head, trying to imagine his face without the scars.

He must have been gorgeous at one point. He must have had legions of women falling at his feet. Oddly enough, though I didn't think that I would prefer the old Joker to the new. This scarred, damaged man had a pull to him that I doubt he would have possessed if he owned a perfect face.

He smacked his lips, once, closed his eyes, and then said quietly, "You're wondering… about… the scars."

I nodded slowly. There was no point in denying it; the question crossed everyone's mind eventually. "They're… it's called a Chelsea grin, right? Or… or a Glasglow… smile…" I trailed off as he stared unblinkingly at me and dropped my stare to the floor. I'd done a little bit of research. I hadn't meant for it to be that obvious.

"Now, you see, that's _another_ funny story." His opened his eyes again, slowly rolling them around till they landing on his wrist, which was dripping blood on the flat pillow. I knew I should get him some medical attention for the injury, but it wasn't exactly life-threatening, and this was the first time he'd shown a willingness to talk about his life before the asylum. I would have to be an idiot to interrupt him.

"You see… when I first came to this city… I didn't _look_ like this." He gestured to his face. "I was actually—actually a _really_ handsome fella." He rubbed his knuckle on an imaginary lapel, the universal sign of false modesty, and despite myself I had difficulty stifling a giggle.

_Gigglers, Harley! Remember?_

"So," he said, eyes shifting from spot to spot on the ceiling as he reached into his memory, "I _got_ here… all bright-eyed, eager… and _stupid. _Prey to that _first_ dark alleyway, that first group of _thugs_ that wanted whatever they could _get _from me.

"So-o… I was pulled in. Beaten up. And, uh, _just_ when I thought they'd gotten all they wanted… they nicked the edges of my mouth, just so, and then shoved a _credit card_ in. Like this." He spread his index and middle fingers wide apart to indicate the approximate width of the card and stuck them in his mouth, stretching the disfigured corners far apart.

I could feel myself cringing. I knew, or at least suspected what was coming next, and couldn't help but feel horrified. I just hoped it didn't show on my face. He dropped his hand to the bed again, fixing his gaze on mine. He wanted to watch me as he delivered the punch line.

"When they _stabbed_ me in the _stomach_… I _screamed._ Aaaand…" He lifted his hand up again and gestured. "The rest… is just history."

There were a few moments of dead silence. I could feel a ghost of empathic pain, imagined I could feel the corners of my own mouth tear and rip. It took me a second to shake it off. "That's… _horrible,_" I finally said, feelingly.

He chuckled softly and tilted his head, looking intently at me. "That's _people,_ baby," he said, lifting a hand as if to ask, w_hat are you gonna do?_

"That isn't _all_ people," I protested heatedly.

"Ohh, it's most of 'em," he said cheerfully.

I shook my head and looked at the ground. I disagreed with him, but how could I argue? He'd obviously suffered at the hands of people—I was willing to bet that the Chelsea grin was just the beginning. People who looked different in this city were stared at, and that was a best case scenario. People who looked different were also abused, attacked for no other reason than that they were disfigured or dressed oddly, especially in a city like Gotham. I'd seen it happen.

"But, _hey,_" he said, voice lifting optimistically, "how can you take _my_ word for it? I mean, most people…" I looked up to find him shaking his head sadly. "They don't even consider me _human._" He lifted his cuffed hand, joining it with his free one to point at me with both. "I bet _you_ even doubt that I'm human, deep down."

"You're human," I said softly.

He tipped his head and his voice took on a pensive lilt. "You've never wondered if, uh… if my _skin_ feels different? If it's cold? Scaly? …even _there_?"

I tried to feel surprised, but I really couldn't. He was showing an aptitude for plucking thoughts out of my head as of late. Had I not been so engrossed in him, I might have realized that this was a very scary sign.

"Curiosity is perfectly natural," I said, by way of an answer.

He stared at me for a second, expressionless, and then slowly stood up. His right hand stayed where it was, cuffed to the frame of his cot, but he reached out his left hand to me. We just stared at each other for a second.

This was the first time we'd both stood simultaneously, and I got a sinking feeling as I realized just how _tall_ he was. He wasn't _monstrously_ huge, but he was so thin, broad shoulders notwithstanding, that his height was exaggerated. He still had more than half a foot on me, and I was wearing two-inch wedges. Not for the first time, I wished I had Pam's legs.

"You're serious?" I asked point-blank when he didn't move an inch.

"Why not?" he asked lowly, maintaining eye contact.

I had to laugh. It was the only response I could come up with. When he remained immobile, the incredulous smile dropped from my face.

"Well," I started. He was making it difficult to think. "Assuming that I _did _trust you enough to even _touch_ you—which I don't—then there's still the fact that we're being monitored right now. If Dr. Stratford sees—and he _will_—then I'd get booted off the case."

"Ahh, _Doctor_ Stratford," he said with relish. "Now, _there's_ a man who can't _stand_ not being… in… control. _You_ must really piss him off."

I looked at him unwillingly. "What do you mean?" I asked despite myself. He lifted his eyebrows as if surprised I had to ask.

"Well, uh," he said, rolling his eyes to the left as he appeared to think this through, "you're a wild card. Ya don't follow their little _rules,_" he said, gesticulating to show his contempt for the word. "At least, not the way they _want _you to. And me… well, I've _never_ played by this city's _rules._ The two of together…" He folded his lips and raised his brows, as if to say _well, there you have it._

"He's been giving me a lot of trouble since I started working with you," I said softly, almost to myself.

"He _resents_ not being able to _control_ us," the Joker said emphatically. His hand, which he'd pulled back to gesture with, stretched towards me again. "You're already in the _bad books._ What would one little _finger brush_ matter, really?"

I stared at him and realized that this was crazy—not only the proposition itself, but the fact that I actually _wanted_ to reach out, to touch his hand. The urge was unbidden, and it was strong. I felt myself taking a reluctant step forward. "This is ridiculous," I said softly.

"Yeah," he said, almost questioningly, as if wondering why that was a problem.

One more step. My eyes were rapidly flitting between his outstretched hand and his eyes, searching, searching for I don't know _what._ Maybe some indication that this was the right move, that it wasn't as stupid as that dwindling portion of common sense in my brain insisted it was. He was motionless, not moving an inch. His hand didn't even tremble.

_I _was trembling. I was scared. I was elated. I felt free, yet at the same time, I felt like a complete idiot. After all, I _knew_ I was Little Red Riding Hood in this story, and he was the Big Bad Wolf.

None of this changed the fact that I actually wanted to touch him, and he was offering. I wanted to see if he really was human, wanted proof that he didn't feel waxy, cold, and dead. He wasn't moving. And really, what harm _could_ a brush of the fingers do?

One more step and he was within reach. I took one more glimpse at his eyes—they were dark holes, just boring into me, not moving a centimeter.

I stretched my right hand out slowly, index finger at the forefront, the rest curled back a little. I brought my fingers within a foot of his, then half a foot, then an inch.

I took a deep breath and closed that inch.

I'd always thought that all that jazz about "electric touches" was just crappy romance novel writing. I was wrong. Apparently, if you want something bad enough, your brain gets just a little shocked when you actually _get_ it. I could feel a buzz of electricity or… or _something_... humming between our skin.

I didn't pull away. I felt his skin, rough and jagged from years of him not giving a shit what it was exposed to, and I felt his warmth—unnaturally warm, hot skin, as if he was running a fever. Almost unconsciously, I frowned at the thought and found myself pushing my other fingers closer, nudging his apart, sliding in-between them, resting the fingertips on his knuckles. Scarred knuckles, tough with built and re-built tissue that was probably constantly being torn open from rough play.

I lifted my eyes to his, and I only had time to see the change in his expression and realize that I had made a very big mistake before his fingers tightened around my hand, his grip bone-crushing, and I cried out in surprise when he gave me a swift, rough jerk. It threw me off balance, and I went tumbling straight into him.

_Oh, shit. Oh, shit, Harley! You moron!_

His free arm looped around my back, pinning my body brutally to his chest. My face was thrown against the rough fabric covering his shoulder and I couldn't _see_—what was he _doing?_

His grip, impossibly, began to tighten, squeezing the breath out of me, and I couldn't move; I was trapped against him—and in that half-second of chaos, a quiet little voice spoke in my mind. _This is ridiculous. Harley, you've got weapons. Use them._

Welcome back, voice of reason.

I turned my head into his bare, warm neck, opened my mouth, and sank my teeth in. I bit him _hard._

His reaction was… not what I expected.

He shuddered briefly but violently, and his back arched, which had the effect of pushing his chest even harder into mine. I could feel his stomach tensing beneath the jumpsuit, as if he was working not to make some kind of noise, and I don't think it was a cry of pain. I just had enough time to think _and he accused __me__ of masochism _and wonder if maybe biting him had been absolutely the _wrong_ course of action before the steely arm around me slackened just a tiny bit.

I took advantage of it. I detached myself from his throat, wedged my hands between our chests and shoved as hard as I could.

I had never been a weakling, and just now I had the advantage of three meals a day and about seven hours of sleep a night along with a regular workout regime. His arm trembled for a split second, then his grip broke, and I fell backwards away from him.

I twisted into a last-second back handspring, curling and tucking my body to flip away from him, and repeated that with another, unsure if one would get me far enough away from him. Interestingly enough, the only thought running through my mind was _Thank God I wore pants today._

It was only once I landed that I had time to realize that my ribs were aching dully and my breath was just now starting to come back. All I could do was glare at him, and believe me, if looks could kill…

He started laughing. The bastard just doubled up, stumbling back into his bed and falling onto it, and howled with laughter. I was savagely pleased to note that I could see the mark on his neck from my teeth—angry, red, already starting to bruise—but it didn't seem to concern him in the least bit. Whatever that… _reaction _had been, he was waltzing right on past it, as if it never happened, and I was more than willing to ignore it as well.

"Ugh," I practically shrieked, utterly frustrated. "Why are you such an _asshole?_" I felt like I'd just been punched in the stomach, and all he could do was _laugh._

The door clunked open, and part of my brain screamed _it's about time!_ Wilson came in, looking certifiably horrified. "Harley!" he gasped. "Are you okay?"

"I'm leaving _now_," I snarled, glaring at the Joker, who was still doubled up on his bed, laughing and laughing. "_He_ needs more Thorazine and some medical treatment." I snatched my cell phone from Wilson's loose fingers, turned on my heel, and walked out.

Unfortunately, Stratford was waiting for me just outside the door, glaring daggers at me. His voice was flat, low, and dangerously calm. "Go home, Quinzel. Get your head screwed on straight. When you come back on Monday, I'm assigning you to a different set of patients. You're done with him."

It took a second for his words to sink in, but when they did, they pissed me off. The events of the afternoon had really driven it home—I was starting to see the Joker case as my personal property (_and, _piped up a voice from a slowly-expanding corner of my mind, _he sees you as his_). The fact Stratford he was putting other people on it and now trying to take _me_ off made me angry. Fluster and angry, not thinking clearly, I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand, cutting me off before I could state my case.

"I do _not_ want to hear it, Quinzel!" he said, his voice lifting slightly past the point of polite. "And you mark my words," he added, taking a step or two to come in close, intentionally looming over me, "if I _ever _see you blatantly ignore protocol like that again, you're gone for good."

I glared at him. I really couldn't help it, despite the fact that I wanted a job to come back to after the weekend. However, the rational side of my brain urged me to just walk away, and so I did. I turned around, went to the elevator, and left the asylum.

* * *

I went home, changed, and went straight to the gym. There, as sort of an acknowledgement that my former studies in the field had saved me today, I practiced move after move, routine after routine. I had neglected my practice for the last fortnight or so, and I could feel it as I went through the motions, but I stubbornly pressed on.

I stopped only when I realized that I was trying several muscle groups that had been left to rest for too long and that if I wanted to move in the morning, I would need to give up for the night.

I went back home and headed straight for my Joker binder. I should have done this before going to the gym—the thoughts had been boiling in my mind for hours now, and when I finally reached the notebook, I pressed the pen so hard to the paper that I was in danger of tearing it through.

_Why, why, why? Why on earth did I feel the need to touch him? Why did he ask me to? He must have known that he'd be stopped before he could do any real damage; why attack me if it wasn't going to result in anything good for him?_

I paused in the midst of the furious writing and took a deep breath, closing my eyes. _Calm down,_ I told myself, and then opened my eyes, scratched out the few sentences I'd already written, and started fresh, forcing myself to forget about how annoyed I was, to be distant and analytic.

_He's spoken about his past now, for the first time. Was he telling the truth? I've done some research about Glasgow smiles, and I'd read that credit cards could be used, but this is the first time I've happened upon any details._

_He could be lying. There are all manner of rumors about him, but this one is straight from his own mouth. I don't think giving him the benefit of the doubt will hurt. It's the only thing I have to work with after all._

_At any rate, there's definitely been progress. Before, he wouldn't say the first thing about his life before he emerged as the Joker. He was paranoid (with good reason), thinking that his therapists would dig into it, use it to dissect him. On that note…_

_This story could explain, in part, why he is the way he is. If he was just an innocent bystander in such a brutal crime, why not get angry? What reason would he have not to decide that humanity is evil based on the evidence he had? What if this incident acted as a catalyst? It could have easily facilitated the growth of that spark of darkness all humans seem to have—he may have discovered it then and nurtured it until it grew and grew and eventually consumed him._

I dropped the pen onto the paper and sighed. It was all speculation. I couldn't know anything for sure until I _knew_ he was telling the truth, until I _knew_ that I was on track with my assumptions. Until then, they were just that—assumptions.

I shifted uncomfortably, and then realized I was sitting on my phone. I fished it out of my pocket, turned it on, and then winced. Pam had been busy.

**13 New Text Messages**

I sighed and started to scroll through them.

**You aren't getting back to me; getting kind of worried.**

**Where are you?**

**Are you dead?**

**I'm sorry, the last message was kind of tasteless considering the danger you're putting yourself in daily now**

**Seriously though, are you dead?**

The rest followed along the same lines. I sighed, got an idea, and called her immediately. "Hey, Pam. No, I'm okay. I know, I know—I'm sorry. About that—I have a story to tell you and I desperately need a drink. Meet me at X-Ray in half an hour."

* * *

**A/N** - I really enjoyed writing this chapter. I enjoy playing with sexual tension, and so even though the Joker and Harley are very far from being "conventionally" intimate, it's fun to play with their sadomasochistic minds and explore the gratification they get out of crazy stuff like attempts to harm one another.

Hmm. I had some notes on Pam, but I think they can wait till the next chapter, when she pops up again. Until then- you reviewers are just as cool as stolen, vandalized-to-the-point-of-awesome semi-trucks. I would hijack you all if I got the chance. Thank you! I'll update before too long, but until then, feedback is greatly appreciated!


	7. merrily, merrily in terror I flee

**Chapter Seven**

_Merrily, merrily in terror I flee__  
Every time I dance—every time I dance with you,  
I stagger out the nightclub__ black and blue, battered and bruised, but I care not.  
_**-Eugene McGuinness, _Shotgun_**

"…and then he kicked me out. He was _super _pissed."

Forty-five minutes later, Pam and I had united in our favorite club. We both liked X-Ray partially because it had a great dance floor and the bouncers were pretty good about making sure everyone was behaving (and taking complaints about overly handsy guys seriously), but largely because the bar was set apart from the dance floor, enough so that you could talk without having to shout over the throbbing music. I had just finished relating the story of the afternoon's events to an attentive Pam over the first of hopefully many tequila shots, and watched her now for a reaction.

She obliged. She didn't even allow the customary seconds of shocked silence after I was finished before saying, "Harleen Quinzel, you're an _idiot._"

"Love you too," I said dryly.

"Well, I'm _sorry,_ but what were you _thinking?_ The man's a certifiable psycho. What, did you think that your touch would melt the shell of crazy around him and reveal some Prince Charming underneath?"

"Of _course _not."

"I mean, what could possibly convince you to _do_ that?"

"He was very… persuasive," I said reluctantly.

"Yeah, I bet," she said sardonically. "You know, maybe it's a _good_ thing you've been taken off of the case." I made an indignant sound, but she wasn't having any of it. "No, honestly. I was serious when I said that you were pulled to him in some way, and now that _this_ has happened, it just proves that the attraction is clouding your judgment."

"Red…" It was all I could say.

"Oh, honey, don't look so _lost_," she chided me, covering my hand with hers. "Your life isn't _over_. I know you wanted this. I know. But it's for the best. The Joker is a dangerous criminal, and I've got to say, I feel better knowing that you're not going to be around him anymore."

In lieu of responding, I did another shot and sucked disconsolately on a lime wedge, and Pam matched me. After groaning past the burn of alcohol, she patted my knee and said, "Come on. Cheer up. Stay over tonight and we'll watch something ridiculously sunny—I don't know, something with Julie Andrews—and tomorrow you'll feel better. Okay?"

"If you say so," I said, unconvinced.

"I _do _say so. And you better step up, because I intend to outdrink you."

I looked at her dubiously, a smile creeping over my face. Pam may have been taller than me, but she was a terrible lightweight. "Um. I'm… gonna run to the bathroom while you rethink that," I said, slipping off of my stool, and she shook her head vehemently.

"You're not gonna get out of it that easily," she called after me, and I laughed.

Once away from Pam's positive influence, though, and head already swimming vaguely through two shots of tequila taken in rapid succession, my mood plummeted again. The bathroom was empty, and I found myself glowering at my reflection, again skewing myself for my stupidity earlier.

_And it cost you the best and most interesting case you've ever had—or likely will ever have. Was it really worth giving up so you could indulge in a little touch that resulted in you getting attacked by the raving terrorist, genius?_

Violently, I shut off the water and tore some paper towels out of the dispenser, too impatient to deal with the air dryer (Pam would be livid with me, but I was beyond caring, and she didn't need to know, anyway). I dried my hands as if they'd done me a personal harm, tossed the towels, and then braced my hands on either side of the sink, staring at my reflection.

As I watched, the glowering slant to my brows smoothed out and the frown lines faded away. I couldn't identify the source of the next train of thought, but something in me apparently found it comforting: _Settle down. Have a little faith. He's made it pretty damn clear that the he considers the two of you as being in this together. He's not likely to take kindly to their attempts to separate you from him, as frightening as that may be, and if he doesn't cooperate… well, Stratford's not going to risk being asked to surrender him to another asylum just so he can follow through with this little powerplay. You just have to be patient. Trust in the Joker's will. They'll send you back in._

I snorted, shaking my head a little bit. _Trust in the Joker? Now, __that's__ a scary thought. Looks like I probably need this night out to clear my head more than I imagined. _Still, I couldn't help but feel better. While I could hardly feel absolutely certain that the Joker would insist on dealing with me and only me (I knew that it was not unlikely that he might throw me under the bus just for the laughs), I doubted he'd waver. The idea of pissing Stratford off and freaking everyone out with his focus on me was just so tempting.

Frown gone, I touched up my makeup and then returned to the bar. I checked my step as I realized that a man was sidling up to Pam, who was oblivious, scribbling in her notebook, and I stood with my arms folded, waiting casually and eavesdropping on the exchange. It was unlikely that she'd go for a random guy trying to pick her up in a club—such men were hardly her type—but I didn't exactly want to horn in if she _did _take to him for some reason.

"Buy you a drink?"

"I've already got one, but thank you for the offer," she responded, barely looking at him as she lifted her glass as evidence.

"Let me get your next one, then. After all, that's why you're here, isn't it? To have guys buy you drinks and tell you how beautiful you are?"

She set her glass on the bar and turned her head, staring at him. I could tell she was a little bit tipsy already, and I let a smile play over my face as I waited. I knew what drunk Pam was like (a lot like sober Pam, actually, but more aggressive). This guy was about to find out. Sure enough:

"You know, I actually really resent that stereotype. You're assuming that because I'm a woman at a bar, I need financial support and I need you to pay compliments to my appearance to soothe the insecurities that, as a female in American society, I _must _be constantly dealing with."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that I already told you, politely, that I wasn't interested, but you don't want to accept those boundaries that I set. Because you're a male and I'm a female, I'm supposed to sit and be polite while you make all sorts of ignorant assumptions about my character based on the fact that I have a vagina."

"Are you joking? Come on," he said, laughing. "You're too pretty to be ranting on like some carpet-munching feminist."

"Hmm." She took a sip of her drink, mouthed _carpet-munching_, and looked at him again. "Allow me to make a demonstration that might get through to you." Without warning, she slung her drink full into his face. He sputtered and turned immediately red, and she said briskly, "Do you see how _annoying_ gender roles can be? You should have hit me by now. Your fists are clenching, so I'm quite sure you _want _to hit me, but society dictates that you _can't_, because you're a man and I'm a woman and it isn't _proper _because I'm weak and delicate and it would be _taking advantage._"

"You're a crazy bitch," he swore, backing away.

"Ah, yes," she called after him, "I've been a paradigm of calm reason throughout this whole conversation, but because I made a quasi-aggressive move for the purpose of showing you the error of your ways, I'm a crazy… _bitch. _You're smart," she shouted as he disappeared into the crowd, and turned back to her drink. I slipped onto my stool next to her, smirking.

"What if he'd actually hit you?" I asked.

She shrugged. "It would hurt, but I'd be impressed."

"This is why I take you to clubs. You are a queen among women."

She smirked. "Goddess, surely," she said modestly. "A goddess, might I add, who _still _thoroughly intends to outdrink you tonight. Come on," she added as the bartender warily placed two more shots of tequila in front of us. "Down the hatch. We've got work to do."

* * *

"Rise and shine, gorgeous!"

That was Pam's opening line to me next morning, and I responded by pulling a pillow over my face and groaning various interpretations of the word "no."

"Ugh, what is that awful sound? Is that _you?_ You sound like a dying animal. Come on, you can't be _that_ hungover. I made you drink water last night." In the next second, the pillow was ripped away from me, and I glowered fiercely in the fuzzy red outline of her head.

"I hate you," I moaned. "You were _so_ much drunker than I was last night. How on earth are you upright?"

As she finally came into focus, I saw that she was smiling brightly (and a little smugly), which only strengthened my desire to kill her. "I might be a lightweight, but it's worth it the morning after when I'm like this—" she indicated herself—"and you're like _that_."

"Heartless bitch," I mumbled, rolling over. She threw the pillow at my butt.

"Get up," she said. "I seem to recall you promising to come out to the woods with me today."

"Nooooo."

"You should know better than to rise to my baiting. If you hadn't been so determined to outdrink me, you wouldn't have made so many regrettable decisions."

"I'm an only child," I whined. "I'm not _supposed_ to have a big sister. How did this happen?"

"Oh, stop being dramatic," she scolded me, picking up the pillow just so she could hit me with it again, and I shot her the most poisonous look I could muster while simultaneously feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. "Get up. There's water, coffee, and Aspirin in it for you if you do."

Forty-five minutes later, after showering, chugging down two big glasses of water, and popping some aspirin, I was beginning to feel human again. I crouched at Pam's kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee and waiting for my headache to abate as she flitted around the kitchen gathering supplies for the outing I guessed we were about to have. I vaguely remembered her extracting the promise from me to begin with, and I didn't think it should count due to the state I'd been in at the time, but I knew better than to argue. She clearly had made up her mind.

She looked at me, flashing a smile. "Better?"

"Still not thrilled with the idea of crashing through the woods to hunt down a certain sort of fungus—"

"It's a moss, thank you."

"Right. A moss. Red, how are you supposed to enjoy your days off if you spend them working?"

"I love my work," she said simply.

How was I supposed to argue with that? I grumbled into my coffee cup, but resigned myself to my fate. She smirked and gestured. "Come on, you can take that with you. We've got to go pick up your car and you need to change shoes anyway. Your feet are too little to fit in mine." I groaned, but rolled out of my chair and followed her lead, collecting my things for the brief train trip to my apartment.

Owning a car was not inexpensive or easy in the city, but I was fortunate enough to be living in an apartment complex with its own underground garage and Arkham had an employee garage linked to the building, which eliminated a lot of the hassle. I probably could have gotten on well enough without it, but I hadn't grown up in a big city, my relationship with public transportation was lukewarm (I appreciated it when I needed it but generally tried to avoid it) and taking taxis everywhere was almost as expensive as keeping my car fueled up and paying for parking anyway. Pam refused to own one (she was of the opinion that way too many people did, anyway), and so when she needed to go somewhere that a train or taxi couldn't take her, she borrowed mine. It worked out.

We swung by my apartment to get the car and for me to pull on a pair of heavy combat boots, and then we were off, northbound towards Gotham County's very own protected forest. It was one of Pam's favorite places in the world—she borrowed my car to drive out there at least once every couple of weeks, to get away from the city and recharge in what we were both convinced was her natural environment. She was always after me to join her, but I didn't have her aptitude. I was quite convinced that nature had it out for me, and was generally just better navigating a concrete jungle than the greener kind. Or staying indoors—I was good with the indoors, too.

Things didn't turn out exactly as planned.

The first indication that our plans were going to go awry was the steady increase of bright orange "construction ahead" signs. I initially didn't even notice them, but Pam pointed them out, forehead creased in worry, and I was quick to assure her that it was probably just road work.

The next sign, however, was a little harder to shrug off, considering that it consisted of a mass of heavy machinery and the men to operate it stationed outside of the closed-off entrance to the woods.

Pam and I exchanged quick, blank looks, and quickly, she said, "Pull over."

I obeyed despite the sinking feeling in my stomach, and she didn't even wait for me to put the car in park before she bolted. "Red, wait!" I called out, but she was already making a beeline towards the group of construction workers. "Red," I growled, throwing off my seatbelt and jumping out of my car to pursue.

"Hey!" she called out as she ran. "Excuse me!"

One of the men detached from the group, looking wary, and she had barely stopped moving before she was flinging out questions: "What's going on here? Why is the entrance closed?"

"We're getting started clearing up the trees," the guy said, wiping his forehead on his sleeve, and Pam started shaking her head immediately.

"Clearing the trees? This is a protected forest," she insisted as I reached them.

The guy shrugged. "Well… not anymore."

"What happened?"

"I don't know, lady. The funding ran out, I guess."

"What do you _mean, _the funding ran out?" she all but spat. "How much can it _possibly_ cost to just make sure no one vandalizes this place?"

The guy hunched his shoulders defensively. "Look, all I know is that me and my guys were hired by LexCorp to clear this place out. They're supposed to have construction in place for a mini-mall by next year."

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered.

"You can't do that," Pam said instantly.

"Come up with the money to buy this place and you get to say what happens to it. Otherwise, I'm gonna need you to keep your distance. There's a lot of heavy machinery around, we don't need a couple of girls running around and causing trouble."

I honestly thought she might hit him, so I subtly reached over and took her arm as I gave the worker a quick, false smile. "Thanks for the explanation," I said, stepping back and pulling Pam along with me.

Some of the workers who had been close enough to hear the exchange were pointing and laughing. Between the sound of their mockery, the remnants of my hangover, and the look on Pam's face, which was somewhere between shell-shock and homicidal rage, I was tempted to run over, jump into one of their bulldozers, and mow them all down. Instead, I focused on guiding Pam back to the car.

She was conspicuously silent, so I fumed for her as I made a three-point turn and headed back towards the city. "That's completely ridiculous. Of all the shitty—and how _cliché, _right? Talk about mustache-twirling evil. Clearing the woods out for a _mini-mall. _The nineties called, they want their kid's movie villain's masterplan back."

No response. I glanced nervously at her. "Look, we'll fix it, all right?"

"Do you have a couple of million dollars we can use to buy the land?" she asked tonelessly.

"I could rob a bank," I suggested. She didn't so much as pretend to smile, and I sighed. "I was thinking more like starting a petition. Raising awareness, getting in touch with a couple of well-known environmentalist groups, maybe get a couple of the more extreme ones to start a protest."

She snorted. "_Extreme. _They chain themselves to trees and think it'll make a difference, Harley. They don't know the first thing about _extreme._"

"All right, all right, that adjective wasn't a great choice. I'm only saying, maybe we can do _something_."

"None of it ever makes a difference," she said, her voice growing harsher. "There have been environmental protestors since Carson wrote _Silent Spring _and what the hell have they accomplished? Check out the satellite photos of America from NASA in 1950 compared to those now, and you'll have your answer. They haven't even slowed the destructive force of humanity _down. _It's gonna take something a _lot _more intense than a _petition _to finally galvanize people into restoring the earth that has sheltered and fed and clothed them since the birth of humanity."

"What do you mean?" I asked warily, glancing from the road to her and back again.

"A new plague would be nice," she said acidly, and we were silent for a few tense seconds before she sighed and rubbed her forehead. "I don't know, Harley. I'm just sick of it all. I've seen shit like this happen for so long that I'm actually astonished it still affects me this way."

"It's a good thing," I opined. "It means you still care. Maybe you'll be the one who finally makes a difference."

"Maybe," she mumbled, turning to the window.

She definitely wasn't in the mood to talk, so I just focused on driving, though my own thoughts were in turmoil (and for once, the Joker didn't figure into it). I just kept thinking about those assholes who saw a woman in distress and _laughed _at her, kept remembering the stricken look on her face when she realized that the only real nature she had regular access to was going to be ripped apart for the sake of money. I felt sick and helpless—not for the same reasons as Pam, but because it seemed like everywhere I turned these days I saw more evidence of the general shittiness of humanity.

It was difficult for me to admit it, even to myself, but I was starting to think perhaps the Joker had a point.

* * *

I went back on Monday, and true to his threat, Stratford assigned me to some new arrivals. Compared to the Joker, though, they were so boring that I wanted to cry. In fact, they required so little effort in comparison that I spent the majority of the time daydreaming up various ways to thwart Stratford and see him anyway. If anyone noticed that I was only half-there, no one was saying anything. I was walking back to my car at the end of the day, feeling utterly frustrated when David Wilson caught up with me.

"Harley—Harley, wait up!"

I turned and summoned a smile for him. As far as colleagues went, Wilson was a favorite. He was a good doctor, he was smart, he was considerate, and he had a decent sense of humor, so dealing with him was far from a hardship. It helped that I imagined he must have news of the Joker—it wasn't exactly his habit to approach me outside of work. "Hey, David. What's up?"

"I need a favor."

"Shoot," I said warily. That didn't exactly sound like impending Joker news.

"There's a gala on Thursday night. It's a charity function for cancer research; Arkham needs to be represented but Stratford's up to his eyeballs in work, so he delegated to me."

"And are you delegating to me?" I asked doubtfully. I was just a junior doctor, hardly an apt representative, but if they were desperate to keep me occupied…

"Not exactly. The invitation said 'and date.' I thought I would ask you—you know, it's a chance to dress up and pal around with socialites."

"Sounds like a nightmare," I said, pasting on a smirk to conceal the inner flare of panic, and he laughed.

"I know. That's why I asked you. I figure if there's someone else with a level head there, then I might not succumb to the urge to drown myself in the punch bowl."

I hesitated, trying desperately to think of a way to refuse kindly. Wilson was steady and attractive and I liked him a lot, but he wasn't exactly my type—we had absolutely no chemistry from the day we met, and I doubted that was going to change. Add that to the fact that he was clearly still hurting from the murder of his fiancé several months ago, and I was far from thrilled at the idea of going out with him.

Fortunately, the second's pause clued him in, because I saw horror flash briefly across his face before he said, "Oh, no—I mean, not as a date. That's—I don't think of you that way. Not to say you're not attractive, I just—what I mean is—"

I had never seen him all fumbling and stammering, and combined with my relief at the fact that I wouldn't be fielding romantic overtures anytime soon … I couldn't help myself. I laughed, and he finally stopped trying to explain and just gave me a rueful smile. "Don't stress, David, I understand."

"Well, what do you think? Are you free?"

A suspicion struck me, and I gave him a quick, narrow look. "Stratford didn't put you up to this, did he?"

He looked a little sheepish. "He didn't _dis_courage it. I think he thinks it might distract you."

"That's flattering," I grumbled.

"If it's any consolation, his input had nothing to do with my decision to ask. I just would appreciate some company, and I figured you for a good choice."

"Who's your second choice?"

"Oh, Stratford, definitely," he said, straightfaced. "That grim jaw just gets me going."

I laughed again, glanced down at my keys, and took just a second to think it through. _Why not? You're driving yourself crazy with all the fretting about the Joker. You can play dress-up and be snobby about Gotham's best snobs. _I was smiling when I glanced up at him again. "That sounds great, David, thank you for asking. I'd love to come along."

"Good. I was hoping you'd say that. Pick you up at seven?"

"Sounds great."

"Okay. Drive safe, all right?"

"Will do," I said, and we separated, heading for our respective cars.

* * *

The days passed and Arkham practically vibrated with unease. There was a certain tension in the air now that Stratford had severed mine and the Joker's ties; the whole asylum was waiting for something to happen.

I heard rumors. It seemed that Stratford was reaching out for new shrinks, trying every angle and every method of questioning imaginable. It just wasn't working. Apparently, the Joker either repeated his former routine of ripping into his shrinks until the entire structure caved or he just sat in moody silence until they gave up on trying to get a response from him. He was impenetrable. And each time I heard a new rumor of his utter lack of cooperation, some deep, quiet part of me purred in content.

On Wednesday, just as I was about to leave for the night, I heard the news.

Apparently, an orderly had entered his cell to transport him to an examination room. Apparently, the Joker had cheerfully cut the man's throat with some playing cards he had been allowed to keep in his cell.

I was intensely skeptical—_no way that could be true—_until the nurses I was eavesdropping on mentioned that the orderly wasn't _dead,_ as the cut hadn't been nearly deep enough to reach his windpipe. Apparently, though, the cut was remarkably deep for a _paper_ cut. The Joker was sedated and confined to a straitjacket as punishment, and the cards were removed.

I went straight to Stratford's office. I didn't know what I was going to say, but I just felt like I needed to see him. When I reached the doorway, though, he looked up at me, glaring, daring me to speak.

I didn't say anything. I would get nowhere with him tonight, not while he was licking the wounds of his utter failure. I just turned and walked away.

The next night was the gala, which Pam, somewhat recovered from the forest incident, insisted on dressing me for. She rummaged through my closet, rejecting absolutely everything until she found an off-the-shoulder blue gown that I had been forced into getting for a distant cousin's pretentious, high-society wedding.

"It's _beautiful,_ and it brings out your eyes so well," she gushed. "And I've got some elbow-length white gloves I'll let you borrow—they'll go perfectly."

"I'm drawing the line at the gloves," I argued. "Formal wear already feels weird enough."

She brushed aside my objections, practically talking to herself. "I have a red pair and a green pair, too… my parents thought that a set would be a cute Christmas gift. Remind me to give you the red pair; they're leather, I don't like them… but the green pair, I'm keeping; even though I'll never wear them they're gorgeous, and I want the white pair back at the end of the night."

"I'm not wearing them," I argued.

"Don't be ridiculous."

So, when Wilson knocked on my door, I was dressed to a T in the ankle-length gown, strappy black heels, and long white gloves that I felt were absurd. "You look wonderful," he said with a slight grin, obviously taking note of Pam buzzing around in the background and putting two and two together.

Once in the car, I promptly stripped of the gloves. "Best friend," I said in response to his questioning look. "She got a hold of me. Apparently, years of being deprived of a little sister to dress up have taken a toll on her. She's completely snapped."

He laughed. "I understand."

"Do you, now?"

"Oh, yes. I have a big sister. She used to stuff me into tutus."

I laughed. "How old?"

"…I was eleven before I finally got the nerve to put my foot down. My sister was and remains a very intimidating woman," he said, grinning self-deprecatingly as I laughed at him.

We talked family as he drove, but when we got into Gotham's wealthy district, the conversation took an interesting turn.

"I take it you've heard about the Joker's escapade."

"Slitting the orderly's throat with a playing card? I heard."

"You know he was supposed to be restrained."

"While he was in his cell?" I asked, turning to frown at him. It was far from normal for patients to be restrained in their own cells unless they had already misbehaved, and aside from verbal savagery and the two attacks the week before, he had been fairly unthreatening.

"Stratford's been keeping him locked up most of the time," Wilson said, eyes fixed distantly on the road. "Before today, he hadn't really hurt anyone, but his behavior has been increasingly erratic." He glanced at me, and though the look lasted for only a half a second, I knew what he was thinking, because I was thinking the same thing: _ever since you got kicked off the case. _"Boss didn't want to take any chances."

"Okay, then how did the Joker manage to get the orderly?"

"He picked the lock somehow. Stratford's got him in a straitjacket until we figure out how. Frankly, I think he's just relieved to have an excuse to keep him in the jacket."

I sighed. "It's not going to do anything but slow him down and piss him off. He's just going to keep finding ways to make mischief."

"Until they put you back on the case, you mean," Wilson observed quietly.

"I didn't say that."

"No, but it's pretty obvious that you were thinking it. He likes having you around, he's turned it into a war against the asylum—if he gets you back, he wins, and that will do nothing to instill a respect for the asylum's authority in him. Even _if _that wasn't the case, the fact that he's fixated on you is a bad thing, and it's not going to improve his mental health in the least if we cater to that fixation. I think Stratford was right to take you off."

"Do you, now." It wasn't a question. I felt my temper start to flare.

"Don't get mad," he said patiently. "The man's obviously got plans regarding you if he's so determined to deal with you and _only _you, and any plans he has cannot be good. We want you safe, Harley, and it was getting very unsafe for you to be around him."

I sighed. How was I supposed to feed my anger when he was simply trying to express concern for me? If our roles had been reversed, I'd be doing the exact same thing. "I guess."

He summoned a smile for me. "And I know you didn't ask for this opinion, but I think you were getting a little too invested," he said gently. "You shouldn't have touched him."

"I know," I replied quietly.

He nodded and dropped the subject as we arrived at the gala.

* * *

**A/N** - Okay, before I forget, I have to talk a little bit about Pam. In the original canon, they didn't meet until after Harley was Harley Quinn and after Pam was Poison Ivy—but I wanted to explore their characters pre-villainess days, and Harley needed a friend, I think. She's a pretty open individual, so it was inconceivable that she wouldn't have at least _one_ friend in Gotham—and I didn't want to spend time developing a friendship with some random original character only to kill off the character or have Harley ditch her when things come to a head here. So, it served my purpose to bring Pam in a little early. Plus, she plays a role in Harley's descent. (Looks around suspiciously) Who said that? Ahem. Anyway. That was the point of the first couple of segments in this chapter; you're seeing Pam's tendencies, ideologies, and mental cracks as well as Harley's. I know, I know—this chapter was mostly filler. Next time we'll get back to the meat of the story again. I promise.

I've rambled enough. I love people who review more than I love pockets full of knives and lint. So you should review. Thank you for reading!


	8. and they're turning us into monsters

**Chapter Eight**

_And they're turning us into monsters  
Turning us into fire  
Turning us into monsters  
It's all desire  
_**-Gorillaz, _Kids With Guns_**

It was a big, glittering affair, full of Gotham's most glamorous socialites (at least, the ones who didn't have a better party to attend). I knew upon stepping in the door that I would find no common ground with these people, and resigned myself to a night of conversation with only Wilson. It wasn't an unpleasant idea.

After he greeted a few people whom he apparently knew and we moved on through the crowd, a thought struck me. I got a little closer to him and asked softly, "I heard you were assigned to Dr. Crane on a more permanent basis."

He shot a questioning glance towards me. "Yes…?"

"He's a friend, that's all," I said quickly with a shrug. The bruises had disappeared by now, but Stratford still wasn't liable to let me anywhere near him, especially not since I'd been routinely pissing him off of late.

At Wilson's questioningly raised eyebrow, I hastened to add, "Well… _sort_ of a friend. More like a mentor, I guess—he was kind of the final nail in the coffin with regards to my decision to come to Arkham."

"Apt analogy," he said wryly. "You knew him when he taught at Gotham University?" I nodded in response. Wilson nodded at an acquaintance across the room and then said to me, "Well, he's doing well. Too well, as a matter of fact. I'm expecting another breakout any day now."

"Oh. Fantastic," I said shortly. "Then he'll run into Batman again, get beaten up, and return to the asylum, raving and ranting worse than ever."

Wilson gave me a sympathetic look, but before he could say anything, a woman who had been quietly talking a few feet in front of us turned around. She had dark hair and a vaguely English accent and she said, "It's horribly rude of me to just butt in on your conversation, but are you talking about the Batman?"

I watched her warily, but she seemed guileless enough, so I answered with a brief, "Yes."

"Oh, we were just talking about him! Bruce—" and she turned and grabbed the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered man next to her—"weren't we just talking about Batman?"

He turned around, and I got my first look at the purported fop, idiot, and playboy, Bruce Wayne.

He didn't look like an idiot. Not only was he incredibly attractive physically, but he carried that attractiveness in a masculine way—he didn't look like the average Princeton rat living off of the investments of his trust fund. I admit, I sometimes skimmed through tabloids whilst waiting in line at the grocery store, and they made him out to be Gotham's most scandalous character. I didn't give much credit to what they said, but I also picked up a newspaper every now and again, and I couldn't exactly ignore the fact that he had apparently drunkenly set fire to his own home the year before.

That, then, was the reason for the small smirk that had my mouth curling as I looked at him. Handsome, yes. Smart? No. Probably not very.

"Oh, yeah," he said, squinting as the tried to remember his previous conversation. "Why is it that we always talk about him?" His words were a little bit slurred.

"Well, he's kind of a hot topic," I said, sensing that he might be good for some amusement and latching onto the subject. _Far be it from me to waste potential entertainment_.

Bruce wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Still? He's been all anyone's talked about for a year now. It's _boring._" I had to stifle my laughter. He sounded like a pouting kid.

"But he was doing such a fantastic job," the English-ish woman said. "Everyone felt safer with him around—and then the murders occurred. It was completely out of character. The fact that he _killed_ those people but let the Joker live—I just don't buy it."

"Well, in my professional opinion, he's not exactly mentally stable to begin with," said Wilson wryly. "I mean, dressing as a _bat_ of all things, prowling on rooftops by night… is it such a stretch that he would be mentally incapable of maintaining his standards?"

As Wilson and the woman went off on a discussion regarding why Batman had been willing to kill innocents but leave the Joker alive, Bruce apparently remembered that he didn't know me and switched his champagne to his left hand, offering me his right.

"I—er, sorry. Bruce Wayne."

"Harleen Quinzel," I replied, shaking his hand. It wasn't soft, like I imagined a normal blueblood's hand would feel like—but then again, I didn't exactly know many bluebloods. Still, it was closer to—

"The Joker," said Bruce, gesturing towards me with his glass and causing me to widen my eyes in surprise. "_That's_ why your name sounds familiar. You're the doctor that was working with the Joker."

"How do you know about that?" I asked, coming off as suspicious despite myself.

He raised his eyebrows innocently. "Gossip. Mike Stratford is an acquaintance."

I allowed my mouth to twist wryly. "He mentioned me? That's a surprise."

Bruce gave an over-exaggerated wince. "Bad blood?"

"Not exactly," I said, aware that whatever I said here could easily get back to Stratford. I didn't think that Bruce Wayne was the kind to see the merit in discretion. "Let's just say that my methods were less than conventional, and Stratford didn't like it."

"'Less than conventional'?" Bruce quoted. "Like… what? I mean, did you…"

I cut him off, certain that I wasn't going to want to hear what he was about to imply. "I _talked_ to him," I said, and shrugged. "That's it. Nothing more. I think Stratford wanted me to pry away at his past." I shook my head. "That gets you nowhere with the Joker."

"Yeah, I mean, he might not _remember_ his past." He was slurring a little more, and his eyes were less than focused. I was vaguely impressed that he had managed to get so tipsy so early on in the party. "Any progress?" he asked next.

I smiled unwillingly. "He would talk to me when I was still allowed to see him," I said. "But I got taken off the case. Made a few stupid moves."

"Like?" he prompted.

I looked up at him, debated with myself, and then said, "It's probably best if I don't elaborate. Patient-doctor confidentiality and all that."

"Uh-huh. Oh, I understand." Apparently, he had no use for me once he realized he wasn't going to be able to pry the gossip from me. He turned away and tapped the woman on the arm. "C'mon. I've got to go talk to Mrs. Rossendale before the end of the night, and I'm still too sober for that."

"Poor thing," cooed the woman. "Let's get you drunk."

They wandered off, and Wilson raised an amused eyebrow at me. "What was that about?"

"Just meeting Bruce Wayne," I said innocently. After a second, I added, "He's kind of a douche." Wilson laughed aloud, turning some heads.

The night progressed… and I found it boring. Then again, I found everything boring nowadays. At least there were some highlights—when a few of the bluebloods crept outside to steal a cigarette during a speech by some doctor on the advances made in treating lung cancer, Wilson and I chortled quietly together. A crystal fell from the chandelier, landing in and ultimately shattering Bruce Wayne's champagne glass—the poor man looked so confused that I wanted to feel sorry for him.

When we got back in the car to head home, Wilson bluntly commented, "Well, that was boring as hell," making me laugh aloud.

"It had its high points," I countered.

He laughed. "Did you see Wayne's face?"

"Pitiful," I said, smiling. "It almost made me feel bad for calling him a douche."

By then, it was late. We were mostly comfortably quiet on the way home. When we got to my house, Wilson unbuckled his seat belt, but I held out a hand.

"It's fine, David; I can make it from here."

"You sure?" I nodded, and he looked pensively at me before saying, "Thank you for coming tonight. Made it a lot more bearable."

"No problem," I said, giving him a smile. "It's not often that I get to mingle with the bluebloods. Or _have_ to mingle, as the case may be. It's more fun than going to the zoo."

He chuckled. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yep," I said, and unbuckled my seat belt and got out of the car. "Good night."

"Good night," he called. I turned and went to my apartment.

Once inside, I sighed and leaned back against the door. Wilson was decent company, but I had no interest in lying to myself. I had been bored to tears throughout most of the night.

Something needed to change. Otherwise, I might just be bored for the rest of my life.

* * *

Time continued to slide by. Inside Arkham, things got tenser with every passing day, and rumors languidly made their way from top to bottom.

A therapist had been flown in from Metropolis—the Joker had spit in his face and laughed.

The Joker had bitten a chunk of flesh out of a nurse's arm.

They'd brought in a pretty young resident from State, blonde-haired, blue-eyed. He had leaned in close to her. The silly fool had leaned forward as well, believing that she was close to a breakthrough, and he headbutted her—he couldn't lunge across anymore; they were now chaining his shackles to the chair.

I couldn't deny feeling a particular sort of satisfaction at this news. It was proof that not just _any_ pretty little blonde would do—that he regarded me as something special.

I filled my time with research. I made it my business to learn every known detail about him, starting with the moment he had stepped into the limelight. As a result, I also discovered that his clown-masked henchmen were apparently working independently now, pulling off heists and various jobs at random. I wondered if he knew about this.

I sometimes asked myself why I was so anxious to get back to him. After all, the last time I had seen him, he'd nearly broken my ribs. _Well, of course he had._ The man was dangerously unpredictable—it was a lesson he'd taught me: never assume that you're safe. I could never come up with an answer.

I tried putting myself in his head, thinking the way he did. I tried looking at the streets of Gotham as if I were him. It was a depressing experience. It started getting hard to see people as benign and much easier to see them as mindless machines wandering along a set path, unwilling to take any chances that might jeopardize their comfort. I stopped that exercise relatively quickly, but some of that perspective stayed in my brain. It was like staring at one of those "secret" pictures, trying to find the sailboat. When you finally saw it, you couldn't see anything else, and you had no idea how you could have ever missed it.

Rot. The city was full of it, and the Joker hadn't exactly been the person to put it there. Even disregarding all the wickedness that ran rampant in Gotham, there was a certain level of futility. People didn't make eye contact when you walked past them on the street. They didn't _live._ They worked, they ate, they slept, they hung out with their friends… and made no difference.

Not for the first time since this whole thing began, I started to wonder if I was doing the right thing for a living—if there was something out there that would be better for me. Counseling criminals? They went through therapy, got their meds, got out of Arkham, stopped taking the meds, broke the law and got caught doing it, and went right back in.

It was a sobering thought.

_But, Harley,_ I asked myself, _isn't it worth it for that small percentage that actually __changes__?_

Well, yes.

Maybe.

Two weeks and some odd days after I'd been kicked off the Joker case, I was settling back down. I still thought about these issues when I lay in bed, trying to drift off to sleep, but I had decided to just keep my head down, enjoy the few friends I had, and try to work up some enthusiasm for my job again. It was working… sort of. I actually had a relatively interesting patient—a woman who had stabbed her ex-boyfriend, one who I was fairly convinced was faking her madness but who was doing a very impressive job of it. On a more depressing note, Pam was preparing to leave for her trip to Egypt.

I had decided to try to stop thinking about the Joker. Imagine my surprise, then, when I looked up one day to find Dr. Stratford standing in my office doorway. He and I had basically been avoiding one another. I spoke to him to get assignments and that was about all. This visit was unprecedented.

He looked grimly at me, and before I could say anything, he said, "Come with me."

We went to the second floor, and my heart started rising in my throat. _Is this—could he—?_

We stopped outside of an examination room, and Stratford turned to face me. "You don't touch him," he said levelly. "Stay on your side of the table and if he makes any moves, get out. Keep it simple."

"Is—are you—?" I stammered.

He cut me off. "Just _talk_ to him. Get something out of him, _anything._ Give us something we can work with." And then he turned his back and walked away.

I put my hand on the door and realized I was trembling. I took a deep, steadying breath, and then went inside.

And there he was. I didn't fail to notice that he was more thoroughly restrained than I'd ever seen him—the cuffs were new and they looked unusually tight, and his feet were shackled, with a chain running to the legs of the chair, which was bolted to the floor. There was still a bandage on his right arm from his meticulous struggle against his cuffs the last day we'd seen one another, but the bruise I imagined my teeth must have left in his neck was gone.

There were dark purple rings beneath his eyes. It almost looked like he'd been beaten up—and he was thinner… so thin. Had he been sleeping at all? Eating?

_It's so good to see him._

The thought surprised me. I softly shut the door behind me and went to my chair.

For a very long time, there was silence. He hadn't looked up at me once. Finally, still staring at the tabletop, he spoke, his voice just a rusty purr. "Hello… _Harley._"

"Hello, Mister J," I said. My voice, thank goodness, was calm. It by no means reflected my inner turmoil. Thoughts and feelings were just churning away in my brain and in my chest—relief that he hadn't somehow disappeared on me, fresh fear now that I was in the same room with him once again (_dangerous,_ my mind shrieked; _he's __dangerous_), anger at the memory of our last encounter, a cord of affection that surprised me, and a completely irrational surge of happiness. That was just off the top of my head.

"It'sss… been a while. Did you enjoy your… _time off?_"

"It was thrilling," I said dryly. "Most exciting time of my life."

He looked up then. His eyes still burned. He grinned at me. "So. Big, bad Stratford finally called, uh, _uncle,_ did he?"

"Looks that way." He shook an unkempt lock of hair out of his face and made no further comment. I wanted to lean forward, but remembered Stratford's orders and thought better of it. So instead, I said, "Tell me about the Batman."

It must have been the right thing to say. The Joker's eyes lit up and he leaned back. "Ahh," he growled, "the _Bat…_man."

"You had him in a stranglehold. You almost forced him to reveal his identity to the world—and would have, I'm sure, in time. Then you turned around and protected him." I shook my head. "It doesn't make sense to me."

He licked his lips and responded, his voice oddly caressing. "Of course it doesn't." He leaned forward swiftly, a move that I might have recoiled from weeks ago. "When things go _beyond_ the universe you think you see… you _can't_ understand."

"Help me." The words were soft and spoken unintentionally, vocalized from my subconscious. I refused to think about the implications of that request.

He watched me steadily, less animated than I'd ever seen him. The sleep deprivation must have finally been taking its toll. His words came slowly, spoken in that same odd lilt, varying in pitch as usual, but lacking a certain energy. "The _Bat_… man… and I… we operate on… a different _scale._ We _see _things—" he pointed to his eyes with two fingers—"that you… _can't._"

"Why?" I asked steadily.

"Why?" he repeated, sounding surprised at the question. He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tracing his scars, and said again, "_Why?_ Because you're _blind._" He said it as though the answer should be obvious.

"How did _you_ learn to see?"

He smirked then and leaned back. I had broken some sort of spell, pushed too hard, because he continued in his usual manner after that. "_Batman_ sees the world as… y'know, _black_ and _white_. With him, there's _good, evil, _and _nothing_ in between. Our, um, our natures? Our _characters_ dictate that we'll _fight… _forever." He gave a questioning shrug. "Why would I want to _destroy_ a never-ending game like that?"

"Because it's _pointless,_" I said emphatically. "It's exhausting! You fight him forever. You refuse to kill one another—you because you see him as a fascinating game, him for whatever reason he has." _Didn't stop him from killing cops and innocents,_ my mind said. I pushed it aside.

"And that," said the Joker, dragging out his words, "is the _bee-youty _of it."

I stared at him and shook my head. "I don't understand," I said, hearing a pitiful note in my voice and despising myself for it.

He cocked his head and a smile played on his scarred face as he studied me. His voice took on that caressing tone once more. "You will."

I blinked. "What?" _That was… unexpected._ I had assumed that he would tell me that I never could, that it was something that went on in his head and in Batman's, and no one else could ever comprehend it.

"Well, you're already _beginning_ to," he said with his old energy, drawing a target in the air with his finger and pointing at me through its center. "Things aren't so _black_ and _white_ anymore for you, are they, little… Harley… Quinn?"

Harley Quinn.

Harlequin. He had made me a clown in his mind.

Like him.

The old me would have called this a warning sign. A sign that he was obsessive, that I needed to get out while I still could. The new me, the me that wasn't sure of anything much anymore, wasn't ready to leave after the weeks of deprivation and fretting.

I ducked my head, slowly massaging the area between my eyebrows. "The world changed overnight." I lifted my eyes to him, saw him sit up straighter and lift an index finger.

"The world… changes… _always._" He pursed his lips and looked at me out of one eye. _What do you think of that?_

"This city," I said, trying to think. "Look at its citizens. Half have committed more than one crime; a healthy percentage of them make a _career_ out of it. And the rest of them… they just keep their heads down. They don't _do_ anything about it. You have people joining the police force for the criminal opportunities it offers, not because they hope to change it. A cop that isn't dirty is about as rare as a blue moon—"

"_Rarer_," he interjected softly.

"—and the people don't _do_ anything about it!" My voice had lifted. I was not quite shouting. "What is _wrong_ with them?"

"Sometimes," he said, drawing out the word, savoring it, "people… need to be _jolted._"

"And is that what you do? _Jolt_ people?" I demanded.

He burst out laughing. It was unexpected, and I realized that I had been leaning towards him. I jerked back, disgruntled, and a pang of fear hit me—_has he been stringing me along this whole time? Is he just messing with my head?_

He gasped for air. "That's—that's a _side-effect_," he said, and kept laughing.

I didn't see what was so funny.

He eventually subsided into giggles, and theatrically wiped a tear from his eye. "Ohhhh, _Harley,_" he sighed finally. "Harley, Harley… _Harley._ You just wait. You're in for a… _whole_ lotta fun."

"Yeah, well… I'm gonna have to take your word for it," I said flatly.

He peered closely at me. "Smile," he told me finally. "You're_ beautiful_ when you smile."

Don't think the casually-offered words went unnoticed. Don't think that I wouldn't hoard them, pick them apart in the future—but at that moment, I was a little past smiling. "It's kind of hard. You keep making vague references towards some future of mine where I'll be having fun—but I kind of think that _your_ idea of fun and _mine_ are quite different, so I'm not reassured."

He looked at me and said, "They're not so very different."

That chilled me. To suggest that my idea of fun would be similar to his? He was a killer. I worked to stop killers. Was I supposed to be comforted by the idea that I had attempted to climb inside the head of one and had gotten stuck there?

_No,_ I realized as I stared at him. _No. He's not trying to comfort you. He doesn't give a __damn__ about you. He's twisting what you see. He's manipulating you. He's shaking you up._

I stood up, sliding my chair back. "I think our session is over," I said softly, and for the first time, I willingly walked away from him, grimly listening to his sudden laughter build into a manic crescendo.

* * *

**A/N **- Mallrats references forever. I'm sorry I didn't get this up last night as planned; I was absolutely exhausted and conked out around eleven. But I got up early this morning to update for you guys!

Reviewers are better than egg timers that set off unfortunate chains of events!


	9. misery's the river of the world

**Chapter Nine**

_All the good in the world  
You can put inside a thimble  
And still have room for you and me  
_**-Tom Waits, _Misery is the River of the World_**

It wasn't as simple as just walking away from him. It would _never _be that simple, not where the Joker was involved.

If I was just being manipulated, then why did everything he say ring so true? Why did everything he pointed out to me become suddenly obvious? Why was I unable to see the world as it was before?

_He doesn't have to lie. All he has to do is tell the truth—but if what he's saying is true, then how is he manipulating me?_

_Is he manipulating me?_

_Or is he just trying to show me what he sees? Is this his method of unburdening himself? Does he need me to see the world the way he does in order for me to understand why he does the things he does?_

_But no. He doesn't act out of any misguided sense of obligation towards the human race and he doesn't give a shit about the greater good; he made that perfectly clear. He doesn't act out of any motive that I can see. So what? What?_

I couldn't focus on anything, so I didn't argue when Stratford quietly sent me home an hour later.

Once I reached my apartment, I found myself struck with a craving for coffee. I decided against it. I didn't need to be any jitterier than I already was. I brewed some chamomile instead, and went to the bathroom to take down my hair and wash off the day's makeup. That done, I leaned against the counter and stared at myself in the mirror.

I had always had the type of face and body that was described as "cute", a stigma I had been ungratefully trying to escape since my teens. To me, the adjectives "beautiful" or "stunning" were much more desirable—but my nose was too snub to be called beautiful, my face too heart-shaped. I was too short and too curvy to be called stunning—one had to be willowy, to have long legs for that. Pam was stunning. Not me.

_He called me beautiful._

The thought arose unbidden, and I glared into the mirror, angered by that weak part of me that insisted on being flattered. Then again, I doubted that his idea of beauty was conventional, so maybe I should have felt insulted instead… but I didn't.

The most disturbing thing about it was that I was beginning to find him beautiful, too. The knotted scars splayed across the face, the burning eyes, the matted green hair… the hands, rough and long-fingered and dangerous. The solid lips, untouched by the scars spread over the rest of his face, soft in appearance. I was even beginning to find beauty in the stained teeth.

And this new admiration for him physically was just a reflection of how I'd felt about his mind for a month now. It was unique, it was _interesting, _and that made it beautiful.

I stared at the mirror and suddenly resolved to try once more to get inside of his head. This time, I wouldn't be trying amidst the distracting environment that was the asylum and I wouldn't have a ferociously dangerous patient across the table from me requiring at least half of my attention and quick responses. I was determined to piece together what he had told me so far to reach some sort of understanding, to make sense of it all, because I knew I would not rest until I had.

I went into the kitchen, removed the kettle from the stove, and then returned to my room, shut off the lights, and locked the door. In the twilight coming in from the shaded window, I sat on the bed, and I set my mind free to wander and puzzle out this problem.

The Joker was either manipulating me for some reason of his own—probably for the sake of escape—or he was trying to show me the truth. I somehow doubted he needed my help escaping (an event that I imagined was looming over us all). So, assuming it was the latter, what truth was he trying to show me?

Evil. Good. Were these universal concepts? Cultural? If there was no universal definition of good and evil, if it was always circumstantial, then how could any one person be good or evil?

I took the Batman as an example. A year ago, public opinion was all for him bludgeoning criminals and leaving them for the police. He was _good_. He saved the city. Lately, though, he'd been showing a deadly vigilance, a lack of understanding of the humanity he was supposedly defending. Take his treatment of Jonathan. He was legally insane, but Batman beat him more badly every time before sending him back to Arkham, sometimes confining him to the infirmary for weeks, and that was to say nothing of the nightmares that followed.

Batman meant well, but was he achieving his intentions?

In contrast, I took the Joker. There were no rules that he followed. As a result, he had a peculiar sort of freedom that I had never seen before.

_Authority? What was that?_ He did what he wanted to do, precisely when he wanted to do it. He seemed to look at his incarceration at Arkham as a temporary setback, if he even gave it that much thought—he seemed to be working plenty of mischief within its walls.

He thought differently, and as a result, freely. He recognized his ability to do anything that was physically or mentally possible without taking into account the social constraints and conditioning placed upon the world as a whole. He felt no need to just get along and make everything work. The question was this: was there room for a person like him in any society?

Well, if the whole population was like him, then the human race would likely die out very quickly. However, as an individual…

On his own, there might be some merit to his approach.

It didn't look that way on the surface, to be sure. He killed. He stole. He destroyed. He bled anarchy, _reeked_ of it. How could that have any benefit?

Not insignificantly, it had the effect of inspiring people. People looked at him and were horrified. They saw wickedness and were disgusted by it. How much more, then, would they want to distance themselves from the Joker's assumed evil by fighting against it?

People saw him, saw how easily he took a life, and valued their own lives more, knowing how delicate those lives were. When people were forced to view their own mortality, they lived more powerfully.

This, at least, was the human result after one got past that paralyzing, blinding stage of abject terror that the Joker typically inspired. If he had become old news, if he hadn't gotten caught, then they would have accepted his evil and settled down to combat it, each in their own way.

My eyes, which had drifted shut, slowly opened.

He had a purpose. His supposed wickedness had a purpose. There was no white without black, and there was no good without evil. Throughout the course of history, not a good deed was accomplished that hadn't been inspired by some hardship or cruelty, and without people to represent that cruelty…

The Joker had carved out his own purpose, and I saw it now. He was the black to other people's white. He showed people that life could be ugly, a truth that everyone needed to face and fight against sooner or later. I doubted that he did this out of a true sense of altruism, but the result was the same regardless of his intentions.

I blinked. I think I had finally seen what I was supposed to.

* * *

The next morning, Pam was due to depart for Egypt. I had maneuvered to work the night shift at Arkham so that I could see her off. I had been exhausted the night before and slept well despite my troubled mind, so when I rolled out of bed at seven, I felt rested. I climbed in my car and drove over to her place.

My knock went unanswered. No one left their doors unlocked in this city and you'd have to be crazy to have a spare key anywhere not on your person, so I was left knocking harder and then harder. "Okay, _okay_! Jeez," Pam snapped, flinging the door open finally. She looked frazzled. "You don't have to be so _annoying_ about—shit, Harley, what happened to you?"

My hand went immediately to my hair, which felt normal enough. "What?!"

"You've got… like…" She gestured at her eyes fruitlessly before shaking her head, muttering, "Never mind, I'm just crazy. Come help me."

I stole a look at her mirror as I followed her past. I couldn't immediately see what she meant, but after the first half-second, I realized. The difference was in my eyes. I couldn't nail down exactly how I knew this, and I was sure it wasn't a change in makeup—there was just something different about them. I would have liked to stop and stare and figure out exactly what was going on there, but Pam rushed me forward.

"There's going to be this semi-formal thing…" Pam said apologetically as we stepped into the bedroom. I gaped. There were clothes spread everywhere—I had no idea how she managed to fit them all into her compact little closet, or, more importantly, how she was going to get them back _in._

"Harl? What do you think?" she asked anxiously, and I looked over. She was holding out two cocktail dresses side-by-side, both smartly-cut, not too high or too low anywhere, one black, one green.

I didn't have to deliberate for long. "Green."

"Are you sure? I think I wear too much green," she said doubtfully, looking at the standup mirror set up in the corner of her room and holding the black dress against her front.

"Yeah, well, you've got a good reason," I said, reaching over to take the green. "See this color?"

"Mm-hmm," she said, eyes skipping over the deep emerald hue of the dress patiently.

I put it up to her shoulder. "When you wear it, your eyes change. They match that shade _exactly._" I looked around at the massive selection of clothes and grabbed an olive green tank top, shaking it at her. "And the same thing happens when you put that on. Green makes your eyes change color, and _need I remind you _that green eyes are dying out."

"But black is so classy."

"Black is _sexy_," I corrected her. "Unless you're planning to spend the trip seducing Dr. Woodrue—"

She jerked the green dress away from me. "Ugh, Harley, _fine_. If it'll make you stop making insinuations that might actually make me sick, I'll take the green."

I smirked, and she hung it neatly in her garment bag and zipped it up. "All right. I'm all packed." She blew her bangs out of her eyes and looked around. "This place is a mess," she mumbled, and swiftly crossed the room, beginning to jam clothes into a dresser drawer. I stared, wide-eyed, until she tried to add a dress that _definitely _needed to be hanging up in the closet, and then I bounded across the room and grabbed it from her.

"Hang on, now, I thought you loved clothes!"

"I do! I just don't have time to love them right now!"

I laughed. "Getting your place cleaned up doesn't _have _to happen until you get back. Who are you trying to impress, burglars?"

She smirked, but I noticed that she kept shoveling clothes into the dresser haphazardly, so I put my hand over hers, stopping her. "You look worn out, Red. Have you slept at all?"

"I've been excited," she admitted, dodging the question and therefore confirming my guess.

"Sit down," I instructed her. "Let me fold some of these things up, and when I'm done, you can show me where to put them. You've got, what, fifteen minutes before we need to leave for the airport? Plenty of time."

She didn't need to be urged. She collapsed gracefully on her bed, draping herself over the foot to watch me. "So. _So._ News on our favorite li'l psychopath?"

I glanced up at her briefly, then returned my attention to the top I was folding. "Ugh. Don't. You sound like him."

"What, that's a bad thing all of a sudden?"

"It's _always_ been a bad thing." My declaration had a hollow ring to it. Pam, ever intuitive, picked up on it.

"Whoa," she said, rolling onto her back and peering at me upside-down. "You sound… half dead. Don't be offended, it's just that you look so… so defeated. What happened?"

"I'm not," I said softly. "Defeated, I mean."

"Then what gives?"

My eyes got stuck on the black velvet dress I was wrestling onto a hanger. "Stratford threw me in with the tank with the Joker again last night."

Pam's eyes were big and wide, and she was frowning just a little bit. "Finally gave in?"

"Yeah. But the Joker was being… slippery. More so than usual. We discussed human nature again, basically whether it's good or bad."

"You know, after going a month without speaking to each other, most people say things like _how are you?_ or _how's Jimmy doing in Little League?_, but human nature works, too."

"We were continuing a previous discussion," I said, taking little note of her sarcasm. "But it got personal."

Pam stared at me upside-down, and then flopped over onto her stomach again and pushed herself upright. "Personal?"

I nodded slowly. "I've been seeing his side of things a little more." I pretended not to notice her sharp glance in response to this admission. "People… people here, they really are a dark species. Outside of Gotham, they may not have been so bad, but _here_… I mean, half of them are criminals and the other half won't do anything about it. I admitted that to him."

"Genius move, Harley. Give the crazy man the keys to your soul." I stared at her, and she brought her legs around and sat up. "You tell him you're empathizing with him and he's going to take advantage of it."

"I'm supposed to be the therapist here, right?" I questioned with a sardonic pucker of the eyebrows.

Pam frowned. "_Supposed _to be. _You're_ the one making mistakes."

"Maybe I'm just growing up some," I said tersely.

"I still wouldn't have told him that he has a point."

"Well," I admitted, "he seems to think I'm more similar to _him_ than I am to, say, _you_."

Pam snorted inelegantly. "That's a lovely thought. I can just imagine you with a scarred-up face and a bad dye job." She cast me a sideways look. "You're not getting close to self-mutilation and mass murder, are you?"

"Nowhere near," I assured her.

"Oh. Okay, good. Not that I would necessarily take issue with the mass murder. Sometimes I just want to destroy all of humanity and submit the earth to the care of nature once again."

"So you've said a million times before."

"Oh, at _least_ a billion." She smirked at me and stood up. "Here, let me help you put those away; it's time to go. Oh, Harley!" She turned abruptly and flew into the closet.

"So much for the help," I said wryly.

She emerged. "Shush. I'm giving you a present; you should be happy. Here." It was the pair of gloves she had told me about, the elbow-length red leather. "They were gonna be too tight on my hands, so I didn't force them. Look." She stretched out her hand next to mine—hers was long and slender. Mine, in comparison, was little and petite. "The other gloves are made of rayon and cotton and they'll stretch some, but I figured it was best not to mess with leather. Plus, animal skin? No thanks. You can have it."

I didn't have any objections to leather, but even if I had, I was convinced that one good look at the gloves would have stemmed them. They were gorgeous, pale red, clearly sturdy and well-made and oh-so-long. "I'm not sure what I'm going to wear them with, but they're beautiful so I don't care," I said, taking them.

"You've got that cute little skirt, don't you? Wear 'em with that. Mix some high society with bad girl," Pam teased. "It'd fit you."

"Thank you, sweetie," I said, hugging her.

"You're welcome, precious," she responded, pressing a fast kiss to the side of my head. "You can thank me by helping me pick up this mess. I'm going to miss my plane."

We finished straightening the room, and then I gave her a ride to the airport, where I helped her find Dr. Woodrue. I'd met him once before, but he didn't stand out any more than he had previously—he was a slightly untidy, bearded man who looked as though he was too busy to worry about things like matching socks. I imagined I could see the incompetence Pam frequently vented to me about in private, but to her credit, she was nothing but professional with him.

I hugged her goodbye at the gate. "Be careful," I said. "Don't meet some sexy Egyptian guy and refuse to come home, okay?" She snorted, letting me know exactly what the likelihood of _that _happening was, and I smiled fondly at her. "I'm going to miss you like crazy."

"I'll miss you, too," she said, though I could see the distant excitement in her eyes and could tell she was already on that plane, making the descent to Egypt. "Take care with the Joker." I rolled my eyes and she said, "I mean it. I'll be back in a little over a week."

"Okay. I love you." I didn't say that to a lot of people and mean it, but Pam was definitely on that short list.

"Love you, too."

"Dr. Isley?" Woodrue was there, peering carefully at us. "We need to board now."

She gave me a quick smile, we showed each other our crossed fingers, and then she picked up her carry-on bag and walked away. As I watched her go, I felt a sinking feeling. I had just been deprived of my most solid anchor.

Anything could happen now.

* * *

On the way home, following an impulse, I stopped at one of those year-round costume shops. The seasonal Halloween shops were opening now—after all, it was the beginning of October and getting chillier with every day—but I figured a year-round shop would be more likely to have what I needed.

I was right, and I took my find home with me.

Five o'clock rolled around, and I returned to Arkham. I didn't know what the night would entail, but I had a general idea, and I decided to take things into my own hands. The second I entered the building, I headed directly for Stratford's office. As I drew near, though I could hear voices.

"—feeding her to the lions!" It was Dr. Wilson—I was used to his voice always sounding the same, a laid-back drawl, but he was almost yelling now. It was enough to make me slow down and listen carefully.

"She's our best chance!" Stratford snapped back. "I've tried almost everything else, _including _flying shrinks in from all over the country, and we've only ended up with wounded orderlies and offended therapists."

"You shouldn't be sending her in until you've exhausted _every_ resource," Wilson said harshly. "You may be the director, but you're taking your power to extremes. You have no right to send her in again—for heaven's sake, Stratford, she's a _baby._"

"A _baby,_" said Stratford coldly, "who's getting _results._ We get more of a response from him in one half-hour session with her than we do in entire months when we try other therapists with him. I can't afford to think about the potential casualties."

"Then you shouldn't be running this asylum," growled Wilson.

I decided it was time to make my presence known. Oddly enough, I wasn't at all hurt by Stratford's lack of concern for my wellbeing—after all, my feelings on the matter were much the same as his. As long as the asylum got results and I was able to study the Joker, my health—physical and mental—didn't matter much.

I stepped into the doorframe and rapped. Both men snapped their heads around to me sharply, and I regarded them levelly. "I'd like to speak to him again, if that's all right," I said, my voice cold and clear in the sudden silence.

Wilson stared at me, and then looked at Stratford for a long moment. When Stratford refused to make eye contact with him, Wilson scowled in disgust and left the office, brushing past me without a word.

"He's concerned about you," Stratford said after a minute's silence. "You left pretty abruptly last night."

"I was rusty," I said coolly and pointedly. "I needed some time to adapt to that mindset again. I'm better now."

He eyed me. "Yes, I can see that."

There was a moment's silence, and then I asked, "Are you letting me back on the case from now on?" It was mostly a formality. From the argument who'd just heard, I knew he was in a corner and I was his only way out aside from shipping the Joker to the state asylum, which I knew he was not willing to do.

He sighed and leaned forward, digging into his eyes with the heels of his hands. I felt a flicker of sympathy for him, but just a flicker. "I don't see that I have much choice," he said slowly. "He attacks everyone who isn't you. He won't even accept fairly accurate substitutes. He's determined."

I shrugged. "He feels as though we have a connection," I said. "He's not eager to share with anyone else."

"And you have some ideas on what makes you so special?" queried Stratford, looking up at me, making it sound like more of a sarcastic statement than a question.

"He's trying to lure me into his way of thinking," I said, refusing to rise to the bait. Stratford arched his brows.

"I noticed. It sounded to me like you were pretty convinced. If you remember, that's the reason I took you off the case in the first place."

"Good. If you believe that, then maybe he will, too. "

Stratford looked skeptical. "So you're running a farce to try and convince him to tell you more? Do you realize how badly this could hurt you if it backfires? How badly this could hurt _us_?"

"It's not going to backfire, Doctor," I said, showing my teeth in what was more a snarl than a smile. "I can be a very credible actress when the need presents itself."

He stared, and then shook his head. "I hope so, Quinzel."

"I know so," I said certainly. "I've got some plans for the next few upcoming sessions. A couple of unorthodox tactics I plan to try, and I could really use your support."

He looked suspiciously at me, but I just met his stare, betraying nothing. Warily, he asked, "You're not going to_ touch _him again, are you?"

"No. I learned my lesson last time."

"Good," he said. He stared at me for another few seconds before nodding. "Fine, I'll send for him. Sign in and then go to the usual examination room."

I turned away, my heart pounding. He had bought it. If I could keep Stratford convinced that nothing was shifting around in my head, that I was just playing games with the Joker in order to cut through his bullshit and learn about him, then I could continue on with the sessions. Then, maybe I could figure out what was really going on with my brain lately.

It occurred to me that the whole situation was pretty messed up, me supposedly trying to fix the Joker when I was far from confident about my own mental state—but nobody said shrinks are perfect. We're just supposed to be well-adjusted.

_Yeah, right._

I signed in and went to the second floor, where the usual orderlies were waiting outside of the usual room. I nodded to them and went inside.

He was sitting at the table, looking bored, slapping his rigid fingers together softly to indulge in his seeming need to always be in motion. When I came in, he lifted his eyes to my face, and his brows shot up in surprise.

I fought a grim smile, going to sit down in my chair, and I crossed my legs delicately before greeting him. "Good evening, J."

He stared at me for a second, and then the look of surprise turned into a slow, deliberate smirk that turned his taut face into a mass of creases. He looked better. He had slept, I could tell—the purple of the shadows beneath his eyes was much reduced. "Good ev-e-ning… Harley," he said, drawing out the greeting, making it a caress.

"You look better."

"I gotta _say,_" he said, leaning forward and ignoring the observation, "I'm _impressed._ I thought it'd be a couple-a days for _sure_ before you came back."

"I don't hide from my thoughts, J. I try to confront them head-on, which is why I had to leave. I couldn't keep talking to you _and_ face my own head."

"Nooo," he droned, "I guess… no_t_." He leaned back then and looked expectantly at me. "Well?"

I didn't feign ignorance. I knew exactly what he was asking me, and I gave him his answer. "You have a point," I told him. "Without bad, there would be no good. What you do serves a purpose."

"Ahhh," he purred, sounding indomitably self-satisfied. "_So,_ then… why is it do you think that I'm, er, _locked up_ like some… _common criminal_?"

"You scare the populace," I said steadily. "You don't follow their rules, so the general idea is that there must be something wrong with you." I looked at him to see if I was warm.

"Hmm?" he said, cocking his head to one side—hearing me, encouraging me to go further with it.

"So, because you're different from them, they decide to have you locked up and rehabilitated. Common criminals, now, they just get shut away as though they don't exist. You're something a little out of the ordinary, so we've got to try to brainwash you. As soon as Stratford has what he needs from our sessions together, you watch—he'll have you undergoing shock therapy, hypnosis, maybe lobotomy if they get desperate… anything that has a chance of changing you _back._ Back to _normal_. Because you're a representative of chaos, which is a rebellion against order, then you must have been normal at one time, right? You must have been normal in order to rebel _against_ normality." I glanced his way again.

"Hmmmm," he hummed, still hearing me, still wanting me to puzzle it out for myself.

"But," I continued, lifting my eyes to the ceiling so that I didn't have to watch him and be distracted as I thought, "what if you _weren't_? What if you were _never_ normal? You could just as easily have been born like this. Just because ninety-nine point nine percent of the populace is born 'normal', or what we call normal, that doesn't mean _everyone_ has to be. Some people are born without what we call conscience. Some people are born with abnormal brains. Some people are born with so much intelligence that they can't bear it and have to get out."

He didn't make a noise this time as my eyes flicked to him. He just sat there, completely motionless, his eyes locked so completely on me that I wondered that I didn't burst into flames on the spot. He blinked once, slowly, licked his lips, and kept staring.

"You could have been _born_ you, in which case there is no brainwashing. There is no rehabilitation. You can't return something to normal that was never normal in the first place. If your _purpose_ in this world is to preach chaos, then there's no changing that."

"Why, Doctorrrr," he said, his face taking on a pleased grin again, "you're telling me that _you…_ _you,_ the big advocate for _hope_ in the human race… has given up _hope_ for me?"

"Not exactly," I said, looking steadily at him and finding that I was able to encounter his eyes this time without being quite as unnerved. "No. It's more… more that I'm finding out that hope has no place with you, at least not hope for normality. It'd be wiser to hope that you _don't_ become normal."

"Are you _saying,_ Doctor, that… I'm perfect the way I am? That I should… be _myself_?" He managed to make the Hallmark tripe sound nightmarish.

"I'm saying that this is bigger than humanity," I said softly. "It's bigger than our definitions of right and wrong. Shakespeare said the world's a stage, and good shows need conflict. If you change, then it'd be a pretty damn cheesy story, and that's one thing I've noticed about the world's grand plots—they're rarely cheesy."

He burst out laughing, bouncing up and down on his chair, giddy from my declaration. I thought through my little speech and realized that it was pretty ridiculous—I was basing my current breakdown on him on the supposition that the world was a theater that didn't play shitty movies. "Laugh if you want," I said resignedly. "It makes sense to me."

"And that's—" he paused, gasping for air and recovering himself slightly—"that's all that matters, isn't it, _Haaaaar-ley?_"

This time, the way he said my name sounded distinctly taunting. I bit my lip as I stared at his teasing face, and then said abruptly, "I've got something for you."

"Ah?" he said, raising his eyebrows in seemingly polite interest.

I reached into the pocket of my lab coat and drew out several small plastic containers. I set them on the table in front of us—one, two, three. His gaze raked over them once, and then lifted back to my face as if to ask me what the hell I was thinking.

"It's paint," I said, hoping my voice didn't reflect my inward uncertainty. "Grease paint. White, black, and red." When he didn't say anything, I started rambling to conceal my discomfort. "It's generally regard to be the most powerful color combination in the world, which is why the Nazis used it for their uniforms and campaigns. Not that there's a link, but I found it interesting. People only think white and red when they remember your face, but they forget the black you smudged around your eyes. It may have been part of why you struck such a resonant chord." I reached out and picked one of the containers up. "Anyway, I just thought—"

He reached out then, managing to stretch his hands out far enough to just rest his fingertips on the edge of my hand. My eyes widened but I seemed incapable of pulling back—as ridiculous as it sounds, I didn't want to annoy him, and the memory of what had happened the last time we touched hands was currently far from the forefront of my mind. Instead, I stared up at him.

"I'm _touched_," he said, and of course he made it sound so very sarcastic, as though he meant a million different other things, worse things, but his eyes were unchanged and they burned straight through mine.

And then he drew back, and it was as if he'd never reached out, and I continued rambling as though uninterrupted. "Someone's gonna have to watch you, since because you turned _playing cards_ into weapons you could do more with plastic, but I thought you'd feel more comfortable, you know. So." I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "Yeah."

He was picking at the bandage on his wrist, paying me no heed. If he hadn't been the Joker, I would have said he was feeling a little sheepish in response to the gift, but he _was _the Joker and I thought it was far more likely that he'd just gotten bored with me. I figured it was a good time to stand up. "I've got to get back to work," I said. "I'll see you soon."

"Good night, Doctor," he said lowly.

Only the Joker could make a phrase with no verbal or implied warnings sound so promising.

* * *

**A/N** - Wow... can I just say that I was utterly overwhelmed with the reader response to the last chapter? Seriously, you guys brought me close to tears. I'm getting a lot of love and I really adore you all for taking time to share that love. I meant to update yesterday, give you something read over the weekend, but I was having a migraine and screen time was doing me no good.

...I'll quit rambling. Just prepare yourself for the next chapter, which should be up before long- things REALLY start happening. I get the feeling y'all are going to like it. In the meantime, have I mentioned that reviews are to me what greasepaint is to the Joker? (No, I don't smear them on my face! Think metaphorical!) Those who leave feedback will get lots of love from me! Thank you, guys and girls!


	10. let the bodies hit the floor

**Chapter Ten**

_Let the bodies hit the floor.  
_**-Drowning Pool, _Bodies_**

One week later, it was dark, cold, and raining, and I was struggling to maneuver my car through Gotham's slick streets to get to Arkham Asylum for an emergency.

I'd spent the previous days attending sessions with the Joker, talking with him about everything from what he would do if he was the mayor of Gotham (he got a dark look on his face and started muttering about reforming patent laws) to the upcoming presidential election and what he had to say about everything in between. There had been a conspicuous absence of the rather intimate conversation that had been the norm beforehand, though, and I suppose each of us had our reasons for not pursuing it.

For my part, I didn't want Stratford to see how truly intensely personal these sessions had become. The doubts about humanity, this sudden belief in something called destiny and the carefully constructed chaos of fate—it was hitting me particularly hard, and I feared that if I got into any more dangerous discussions with the Joker, then it would become obvious to more than just myself. I was trying to maintain the delicate balance right now. That meant not talking about personal issues.

The Joker, on the other hand… who knew? Maybe he'd gotten everything he wanted out of me. Maybe he was biding his time, waiting until I was completely off-guard before he sprung some giant surprise on me. There was no telling.

He hadn't worn his makeup. I had given it to Howard to give to him, but he hadn't shown up with it once yet. I hunted Howard down to make sure he had actually received it, had received opportunities to use it, but he said that the Joker showed no interest in wearing it. I was a bit bummed at the news.

At any rate, our sessions had been completely ordinary, the kind of stuff a normal therapist would discuss with a patient that was close to completing rehabilitation. I should have known that something would happen to upset the status quo sooner or later.

I was sitting at home with a carton of carry-out Chinese, in my pajamas and considering going to bed despite the fact that it was only 9 PM, when my phone had buzzed with a text.

STRATFORD, the screen read. Frowning, I checked the message.

**Need you here now. Hury up**

The misspelling wasn't like him. Admittedly, he and I didn't text regularly, so I had no way of knowing if he was a stickler for grammar like Pam and I were, but he was the director of Arkham Asylum—it wasn't like him to misspell anything, even in something as unimportant as a text message. It communicated urgency.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and a black v-neck, long-sleeved shirt, forgoing makeup, just running a brush through my hair and brushing my teeth. I grabbed the only umbrella I could see (a ridiculous little thing that Pam had gotten me as a joke; it was white with hideously colored smiley-faces all over it) and ran out into the rain.

Gotham City's streets were harder than most to navigate in bad weather. As well as the usual conditions, there was the pollution factor—there were more oil spills and the pavement had deteriorated more than in other places. It wasn't conducive to fast driving, but I did my best.

Arkham's parking garage was almost completely empty, and I felt a stirring of misgiving as I climbed out of my car and headed inside the building. I had been practicing my gymnastics more than ever as of late, without Pam to distract me in my off time, so I felt as if I had a chance in warding off any potential attacks. Still, gymnastics weren't martial arts. They kept me in good shape but I still had no form of self-defense to speak of. With a little tweaking, though… I thought I might be able to turn my routines into weapons. Still, that didn't help me _now._

I pushed the thought away as I reached the building and checked in. "Where's Doctor Stratford?" I asked a nurse who was passing by.

"Um, in his office, I think," she answered uncertainly.

I felt a surge of relief, and realized that I had reflexively worried that this was about the Joker. It couldn't be too bad if Stratford was in his office instead of anywhere near the infirmary, the examination rooms, or the Joker's cell. Feeling encouraged, I went swiftly for the office.

Stratford was there, and so was his buddy Jack Daniels. The second I caught sight of the half-empty bottle, I sighed, slumping against the doorframe. "Doctor. You've been drinking," I said quietly.

He looked up. His gaze, to his credit, was only slightly bleary. "Only a little," he mumbled.

"A little is too much," I snapped. I had nothing against drinking in general, but it was general knowledge that Stratford was an ex-alcoholic. As far as I knew, he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol in seven, eight years. "What's the occasion?" Even as I asked, I realized that it had to be something bad, and the understanding sent a cold chill down my spine.

"Have a drink," he invited me.

"No, thanks," I said. He shrugged and poured himself some more.

"Well then come in, sit down," he said, waving vaguely at the chairs in front of his desk. Exasperated, but figuring that the best way to find out what he wanted would be to play by his rules, at least temporarily, I came in the rest of the way and sat on the edge of one of the chairs.

"You're aware, are you not," he said slowly, deliberately, eyeing the glassful of amber fluid that he held, "that Doctor Wilson has, as of late, opposed your assignment to the Joker case… quite spiritedly?"

"Mmhm," I acknowledged.

"He believes that the Joker will cause irreparable damage to your psyche should your sessions continue," he said slowly. I waited, saying nothing, and finally, Stratford sighed and took a drink. He didn't even grimace at the burn of the alcohol. "Last week, he made copies of the tapes we have of your sessions with him and took them to a friend of his… Danielle McQueen, you know who she is?"

"Isn't she the director of the state asylum?" I asked, getting a terrible sinking feeling in my stomach.

Stratford laughed shortly and nodded. "She agreed with him. They're taking us to court. They want custody of the Joker."

My heart stopped for a second, and then restarted again, faster than ever.

_Why? He's made it pretty damn clear that the only person he's going to talk to is me. Are they really going to insist on testing him again? Next time, he might not be so generous. Next time, someone might die._

I tried forcing my voice to remain calm, though I could hear a slight quiver in it: "Well, do you think they have a case?"

"Well, that depends, doesn't it? It depends on how stable and capable you come across to the judge. It depends on if he dislikes the idea of a rookie taking on the most advanced case we have, which he very likely will. It depends… on… a lot."

I felt like I couldn't breathe, but I forced myself to take one deep breath, used it to steady myself, and went on. "They'll have no luck with him. He feels connected to me. He won't play their games, just like he wouldn't play yours."

"Yes," said Stratford, staring down into his drink. "My _games._"

Without lifting his eyes, he said, "I had a session or two with him, Quinzel. I'm sure you've seen the footage. He saw far more than I was comfortable with."

"You mean when he called you a pathetic drunk who enjoyed playing power games to prove to himself that he was in control of his own life? Yeah, I saw that," I said. Maybe it was a little bitter. I was panicking. I didn't want to deal with this. It could take weeks, months, and the judge could take the Joker from us for protective reasons until a decision was reached.

_Maybe if I asked Wilson to stop…_

I didn't realize that Stratford was staring at me until he laughed and I was startled into looking up at him. I was met with the most malevolent look I'd ever seen on his face, and he slammed the glass on the desk and stood up.

I sighed. "Look, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'm just tense."

"Tense… I _know,_" he said, circling the desk and sitting on it in front of me. "They might just take away your new… _crush_."

_Not him, too._

Okay. It didn't matter that I was attracted to the Joker, mind and body. It didn't matter that, in effect, I _did_ have a crush on him (though the word seemed so insufficient, so childish). What mattered was that I would never, _ever_ act on it, even if I got the opportunity. It pissed me off that people apparently couldn't see my self-control, though they certainly could see the attraction factor.

"He's your prize patient, Stratford," I said shortly, a little disrespectfully. "Maybe you should be a little more… _tense…_ than you are." I cast a scornful look at the glass.

"I remember when _I _was the subject of your infatuation." He crossed his arms and stared at me. I rolled my eyes.

"Please, Doctor. If this is jealousy—"

"Not jealousy. Curiosity. What is it about him that makes you go all… weak at the knees?"

"You're drunk," I said flatly, standing up although it had the unfortunate side-effect of bringing me face-to-face with him. "And I didn't sign up to deal with a drunk boss making inappropriate insinuations after hours."

At that moment, there was a sharp clap of thunder and the electricity cut out. Everything was pitch black for a few seconds, and I gasped sharply, looking around. My first, irrational thought was that Stratford had orchestrated this, but then I realized that he was probably too drunk to even piss straight.

"Oh, don't worry," he slurred, "the generators will kick in within a few seconds."

As he spoke, there was a loud humming, and some sickly green lights flickered on and filtered in through the partially-open door, though his office remained very black.

"We should check to make sure that the doors are secure and the patients are still calm," I said, starting towards the door.

Stratford caught my wrist. "I wasn't done talking," he said sharply, pulling me a step or two back.

My first instinct was to jerk away, to call him an asshole and sway away in self-satisfied movie-heroine style. I remembered quickly, though, that those movie-heroines often got attacked when they turned their backs on volatile men, and decided to take a more subtle approach.

"All right, then," I said gently, pulling my arm out of his grip. "What did you want to say?"

He seemed disarmed by my tone, momentarily at least. He looked around in the blackness and then leaned back on his desk once more.

"You're a pretty little thing, Quinzel," he said, the smooth tone he was going for rather obliterated by the slur in his voice. "I bet when he saw you… he saw fresh meat. He saw bare throat. And he went for the jugular."

He wasn't making much sense, but I was able to piece together the gist of this latest sulkfest. "He saw someone who was willing to look at him not as insane, but as different," I corrected my superior. "I looked at him as someone who took a different approach to life from the start, and he appreciated that. There's nothing else between us."

"Which is why you just _had_ to touch him, hmm?"

"That was a moment of weakness. You get offered a chance to touch a mass murderer, you're curious."

"No, no, _no_," he said, voice rising exponentially with each negation. "That's not a _normal_ approach, Harley; most people would run and hide if they got 'a chance,' as you put it, to touch a _creature_ like him. Something in most people just screams 'he's dangerous, get out.' Not so much with you. No, not with you—because you _want_ him."

"If you resort to vulgarities, Doctor, then I will leave."

"You do," he said, and he might have sounded gleeful if his face hadn't been so damned dour. "You want him in more ways than one. You want him in every way a woman can want a man. You want him in the same ways you wanted me. Once upon a time."

I'd had enough of his faux-mournfulness, his moping because I had moved on from my temporary infatuation with him. I decided to set the record straight. "If you're so upset about it, Doctor, then why didn't you make some display of affection—even _kindness_—when I still had a bit of a thing for _you_? I had no idea you would get so territorial once you thought I might be moving on, even if it _was_ to a mass-murdering psychopath."

"Wouldn't have been proper," he mumbled. "I'm your superior."

"Bullshit. You enjoyed the fact that I liked you because it gave you some form of power over me. I submitted timidly to whatever you told me. Now that I can see you and your _smallness _a little more clearly, I'm not likely to do that, and it pisses you off."

I had forgotten my don't-act-like-a-horror-movie-victim strategy. Stratford grabbed the hem of my shirt and jerked me into him, twisting us around so that my butt dug into the side of the desk and he was blocking my way to the exit.

"I could have done _anything_ to you," he snarled, voice shaky with anger. "And you would have bent over and taken it. That's just the way you're made, Harleen—_submissive_." I could feel his alcohol-drenched breath washing over my face, and I turned my head to the side, wedging my hands between us and shoving. He had looped his hands around me, though, clasping them around the small of my back, and he wasn't letting go.

"_That's_ why we're losing the Joker. That's why I'm losing the most important case of my career—because of _your_ obsession with him. Because of your inability to stand up to him—and that's why he pretends to _like_ you, because you let him _get away with things._"

"Michael Stratford," I hissed, "if you don't let me go and step back _this second,_ then I will hurt you." He smirked and didn't loosen his grip, and I positioned my knee, preparing to drive it up between his legs.

Suddenly, though, he froze, and I mirrored him, because I heard what he was hearing. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, coming down the hallway—coming _close._

Stratford covered my mouth with his hand—_as if I'm foolish enough to think crying out could do any good_. I knew who was coming. The power outage was too much of a coincidence, and I realized who the footsteps _must_ belong to right away. They were teasing, almost playful, and something about them was entirely too ominous.

My suspicions were proved right when the door was pushed the rest of the way there, and the Joker stood there, looking curious.

He still wore the Arkham jumpsuit, but instead of the bare face I'd become accustomed to, he met us now wearing his carefully disarrayed mask of paint. It was the first time I'd personally seen him in makeup, and I marveled despite the dim light. You could barely see _any_ of the man he once was. The flesh tone had made it easier, but now… he was the Joker. Just the Joker. It was impossible to imagine that he'd ever been anyone else.

He was also completely free of any type of restraint, and there was knife in his right hand, the blade so long and large that it was almost garish.

He took in the sight of me pressed back against the desk with Stratford covering my mouth, and raised his eyebrows. "Uh-oh," he sing-songed. "Am I, uh… am I _interrupting_ anything? I could come back _later_."

Stratford let go of me and stumbled backwards, tripping over the edge of the rug. He looked between me and the Joker, looking scared out of his wits. "Quinzel… talk to him. Do something," he hissed.

I wasn't exactly feeling courageous, myself. Every time I'd met with the man, he'd been restrained _somehow_ and unarmed. Now that the tables had turned, I had no assurance that I would be shown kindness. In fact, I got the horrible feeling that I could count on the opposite.

Spending my last moments being a bitch to the boss that had been pushing me around for so long seemed like a good idea at the time. I pulled myself to a sitting position on the desk and looked at Stratford, feeling a surreal sense of calm wash over me. "You said he was just twisting me for an opportunity to escape. He's obviously escaped. He doesn't need me anymore, so I doubt I'm going to be able to save us."

Stratford widened his eyes at me. The Joker chuckled before the good doctor could argue with me, and prowled into the room.

Freedom suited him. There was a sort of coiled energy in him now, erratic but very visible and rather flattering, in a _you've never met a person more worth fearing in your entire life _kind of way. He took a step towards Stratford. Stratford took a step back. The Joker took another two steps.

Two steps back.

The Joker giggled delightedly and danced towards Stratford at a rapid pace, backing the doctor up against the wall. I tilted my head and watched, morbidly fascinated. Stratford was drunk and in his forties. He was also a little heavy where the Joker was painfully skinny. The skinny guys always put up the best fights. I didn't want Stratford _dead_, but at the same time, I doubted he had much of a chance, and the survivor in me coldly noted that if I tried to prevent it I'd probably just make things worse for myself.

The Joker gracefully flicked his knife up, pressing it lightly to Stratford's temple. "We meet again… _Doctor._"

"We… we're just trying to help you," gasped Stratford, hyperventilating in fear. "We only want the best—"

"Oh, no no no _no,_" the Joker purred. "You _have_ helped me, Doctor." His voice switched to an animalistic growl that I hadn't heard before: "You _have_."

"J," I said softly, unable to just stand by and watch.

His head turned slightly, just so I was able to see his profile, and peered narrowly at me out of his one visible eye. "Justaminute, Harley-darleying. I'll deal with _you_ shortly. For now, shhh. Daddy's working." I lapsed into silence. A slight needle of fear pierced through my emotional numb. It was sharp and very effective.

The Joker turned his head again, bringing his face within inches of Stratford's. "Now, Doc," he sang playfully, "You know what? I get the _feeling_… that you've been less than _helpful_ during your little—" he swung the fingers of his free hand from one side to the other—"um, _sojourn_ here." His voice dropped to a growl again, though it wasn't nearly as primal as before. "Now, this _fiiine_ asylum needs a director _worthy_ of it. You should be… the _best_ in the country, and you're just… _not._"

He patted Stratford on the shoulder. "Don't take it personally. You just… _didn't_ make the cut."

He looked over his shoulder at the door, and then back at the terrified Stratford. "Aaaand. On that note."

I saw the knife flick gracefully towards Stratford's throat, and the fear suddenly overpowered me. I whimpered softly and turned my face away violently. _He's killing him. He's killing him. He's killing him._

There was a sickening sound as the steel tore deep through flesh. Seconds later, I heard Stratford hit the floor, gasping and gurgling, and I almost threw up with the knowledge that he was dying not ten feet away from me and I had done nothing to prevent it.

"_Well,_" said the Joker in self-satisfaction, "that's _that._" I looked over to see that he was stooping down to wipe the knife sloppily clean on Stratford's shirt, and I quickly averted my gaze again. "And _now…_"

I wriggled away from the desk, stumbling swiftly towards the back of the room. I didn't know where I was going, exactly, but I felt that I would be at a marked disadvantage if I was sitting while he was standing.

Then again, there was a good chance that I'd be at a marked disadvantage no matter what happened, but my instincts wouldn't tolerate me sitting quietly to await my fate. I had to at least _try._

"_Going_ somewhere?" questioned the Joker amusedly. I reached a wall and flipped around to find him slinking stealthily towards me. He'd carelessly left some blood on the knife, and it glinted black in the sickly green light.

I pressed my back hard against the wall, keeping my eyes on him, willing to direct them _anywhere_ as long as they were averted from the slumped form that used to be Dr. Mike Stratford.

The Joker stopped a foot shy of me and twisted his mouth into a faux-frown, cocking his head. "Well, Harley, ya don't look happy to see me. I mean, personally, _I_ thought you'd be thrilled. After all… we never exactly got a chance to get… _up close_ and _personal._ I thought you'd like that."

Don't get me wrong. The torch I carried for the man kept on burning, despite the fact that I'd actually witnessed his casual method of murder firsthand. There was still silly, stupid attraction—but it smoldered beneath this blanket of fear currently draped over my psyche. Just because I was drawn to him by no means meant that he felt the same way. As a result, I was very much at risk, and my human survival instinct realized this, even if my instinct for _mental_ self-preservation wasn't functioning correctly.

I didn't say anything. _Maybe if you don't move he won't see you_, my brain told me, stupid with fear.

He kept talking, his eyes diverting to the right, looking out the window, apparently oblivious to my stricken state. "Oh, and… I just wanted to thank you for the paint. I was running a little low and it would have been such a _shame_ to stage this li'l breakout without a bit of _window dressing._"

When I didn't respond, he moved his eyes back to me suddenly. His face was cast in shadow, spectral because of the paint, but his eyes still had that dangerous spark in them.

"Hey," he said softly, and stepped forward, reaching for me.

The self-control that had been keeping me from bolting from the room snapped. I brought my hands up rapidly, lashing out, hitting at him, desperately trying to fight him off. I felt dangerously inept, blinded by fear, completely at a disadvantage as I shrieked and fought. I got a hit in to his stomach, but that was the only blow that may have done the least bit of damage, and he laughed it off as he pinned my arms to my side, scraping my wrist roughly with the knife in the process.

"Hey hey _hey,_" he rasped in protest at my response, forcing my arms down to my sides and taking one final step forward, now entirely too close for comfort—if I took a deep breath, if he did, then our chests would be touching. He ducked his head so that he could look at me, and I screwed my eyes shut and threw my head to the side with a sob.

Yes, I was crying by that point—terror for your life tends to do that to a person. Try being scared for your life while in the room with the source of your fear, who also happens to be the one person you're attracted to, who also just killed your boss, whose body also happens to be in the room. That'll _really_ mess you up in the head.

"Shushushushushush," he said, all at once, sounding a little put out at my response. "Look at me, little Harley Quinn_._"

I didn't have to be told twice. Slowly, I turned my head back, blinking away stray tears and glancing up at him briefly. I couldn't endure the stare for long and quickly ducked my head again.

"Well, I mean," he said, sounding exasperated, "did you _really_ think we were done here?" I kept my head down. I didn't trust myself to try and respond at the time; I was an emotional wreck.

He let go of my hands but there was no room to pull back and hit him—plus, I didn't figure I was going to get brownie points for trying again. He had subdued me once already, I doubted he'd have trouble doing it again, and I thought he'd be a lot less forgiving the second time around.

One of his hands went to the back of my head, the long fingers ensnaring themselves in my hair and twisting, stopping just after they got just tight enough to be uncomfortable. The other hand drifted to my face, grasping my chin, the gentleness of the touch at total odds with its source.

Carefully, as if trying not to break me, he pushed my chin up, up further, until my head was tilted back and I was staring straight into his down-turned face.

There were mere inches, if that, between our faces, between our mouths, and as I stared head-on into his inscrutable eyes, not breathing, not moving, just staring, I wondered what he was thinking.

_Is he going to kiss me?_

Any girl would have thought it. The position was unmistakable, and I couldn't think clearly—would I fight? Would I not? Was this something I wanted or not?

The thought seemed to break whatever spell had held reign over the room. He stepped back, released his grip on my hair, and grabbed my by my bleeding wrist.

"C'mon. We've got a _party_ to attend."

* * *

**A/N**- I know, I know. It's incredibly wicked of me to leave you there, just as things are starting to crank up. I really had to, though, we don't get to another stopping place for a while! Right, well... if it's any consolation, I fully intend to update this weekend unless I somehow can't get the review responses done.

Can you say... Batman cameo in the next chapter?


	11. angel threw me like a rubber man

**Chapter Eleven**

_Angel threw me like a rubber man, aiming for the ground  
Why amuse yourself in such a way?  
_**-Blonde Redhead, _Elephant Girl_**

He pulled me out into the hallway, which was completely empty. I could hear distant noises, though—thumping, men shouting, the distant sound of a woman's scream. The Joker seemed to anticipate the noise. Without breaking stride, he careened around a corner, taking me with him.

"Where are we going?" I demanded, having to almost run in order to keep up with his long strides. There was something on his hand that was getting into my cut. It burned, and I tried not to think about it too much.

"To Banbury Cross," he replied absently—I was swiftly getting the impression that I was by no means his priority right now. At most, I was just a convenient hostage, and I honestly had no idea if that was a good or bad thing.

_Banbury Cross? What the—?_

I had a sudden flashback to my childhood, to the nursery rhymes taught vigilantly by my mother.

_Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross  
to see a fine lady upon a white horse  
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes  
She shall have music wherever she goes_

He was resuming old habits, screwing around with my head. I felt the last of my tears dry up in light of this familiar development just as he stopped and turned abruptly, bursting through the door to the stairwell.

"I gotta say," he said, taking the stairs two at a time and jerking me along with him. "I'm _surprised_ at you."

"Slow _down,_" I cried plaintively. My legs were much shorter than his and he was taking two steps at once, and with the way he was dragging me along I feared falling. I did _not _want him pulling me bodily up the stairs. He cast me a mocking look over his shoulder.

"Ya forgot to say _please_," he said, and jerked me forward, throwing me onto the stairwell in front of him. I stumbled and fell onto my hands and knees, right hand slippery with blood, making it difficult to gain any traction. I climbed to my feet rapidly, unwilling to remain at such an obvious disadvantage.

_Just a slightly less obvious one, then, _I couldn't help thinking, but shoved the idea away immediately. It wasn't helpful. "_Please,_" I huffed, feeling my wrist burn still more, despite being freed from contact with whatever caustic agent he wore on his hands.

He gestured to the remaining stairs lining the walls above us with the hand that held the knife. "_Ladies_ first, but, uh… pick up the pace."

I eyed the stairs, then eyed him, and then turned and started hiking up the stairs, taking them at a jog. He loped one pace behind me, still taking them two at a time but slower now.

"As I was _saying _before I was so_, _ah, _rudely _interrupted," he continued. "I'm surprised at you."

"Surprised at _what?_" I demanded shortly, saving my breath. I had an idea of where we were going now, and figured I'd probably need it.

"Back there," he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "In Stuh-_ratford's_ office. You fell apart, like a _little_ girl," he sang. I glared briefly at him. "Kind of cowardly. What _happened_?"

I felt my gag reflex jump to life again at the reminder. As long as I could pretend that it didn't happen, as long as I could keep my focus on the fact that I was in serious danger and needed to get out of it, then I wouldn't throw up. Otherwise, I might just, and I got the feeling he wouldn't react well to that.

"I'm sorry," I said sarcastically, "but you killed a man in front of me."

"Ohhhh," he said, some neuron making some jump over some synapse in his brain as he finally forged the connection. His voice jumped just a touch higher as he steadily climbed, breathy and full of false sympathy: "Is thatchyour _first time_?"

"First time witnessing a murder? Yeah, thanks for asking," I said, my slight breathlessness due to the three flights of stairs and counting taking the edge off of my sarcasm. "It was a real experience."

"You just wait till ya _kill_ a man for the first time," he said matter-of-factly. "It's a _doozy._"

"I have no intentions of killing anyone."

"Buuut you think it's _my_ purpose."

"I never said that!" I snapped hotly.

"Oh, really?" He sounded so questioning, so eager to please… so full of shit. "Well, then… what does '_what you do serves a purpose_' mean, then?"

I was silent. There's a difference between saying evil has a purpose theoretically and actually witnessing evil carrying out that purpose. The Joker giggled behind me.

The door to the stairwell just ahead of us burst open, and two men came rushing out. _Please, God—_I thought blindly, but then I recognized the orange jumpsuits and with a rush of horror realized that they were inmates, not orderlies. One of them was the schizophrenic family-killer, Ortega, and the other one was a heavily tattooed man that I didn't recognize. They looked our way, saw me first, and Ortega muttered in recognition. He started towards me, and I froze in fear.

Then my companion stepped onto the stair beside me, and Ortega stopped dead. I shot a wide-eyed look at the Joker, but he didn't even spare me a glance, instead watching the two men in the doorway steadily, completely deadpan.

Ortega looked from him to me and back again, and then put a hand out, halting his tattooed companion. He took a step back, then another, and then turned and disappeared swiftly through the door again, followed by Tattoos.

The Joker raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and put a hand on my shoulder, pushing me forward again. I obeyed, but kept glancing back at him with mingled horror and curiosity. "The inmates are loose."

"I noticed," he said.

I returned my attention to the stairs as I thought hard. Of course the inmates were out—whoever he had conned into helping him (and he had somebody, I was sure of it now) would have opened as many doors as possible during the five-second power-outage… and possibly could have found the control rooms and screwed something up so that _all_ the doors were unlocked.

I looked over my shoulder at him again. "They're scared of you."

He shrugged. "Well," he said, running his tongue over his lips briefly, "it happens. I try not to take it too… _personally._"

I looked back at the stairs. The bad guy that all the other bad guys were scared of—that was him, all right. Inexplicably, I felt a smile tugging hard at my mouth, and fought it with everything in me. I didn't need to get lost in hysteria, not right now.

Seconds later, I felt a hand on the small of my back, but before I could worry about what it meant, I was victim to a rather sharp shove that threw me off-balance. I was obviously being told to go faster. I couldn't suppress a quick roll of the eyes—_after all, he could just __ask_—though I made sure he couldn't see, and I picked up the pace.

It struck me that he was being rather… quiet. The two of us weren't exactly strangers to one another, and he wasn't the quiet type. He enjoyed talking. He enjoyed airing his views to an audience. The silence now felt a bit awkward—

—_but, reality check, I'm being forced up to the roof by an escaped mass-murdering clown. I doubt I'm supposed to feel comfortable._

His mind was on his escape. I couldn't exactly fault him for that. He wasn't home free yet, after all, though I honestly doubted he was going to get caught, what with the chaos raging inside of Arkham and the director of the asylum laying dead several floors below. As bizarre as the idea was, I suddenly realized that I was likely more safe with him than I would have been anywhere else. With escaped prisoners swarming the floors below and obviously teaming up to wreak havoc, I wouldn't have stood a chance. With him to disparage any prisoners that might just have a grudge against little blonde Dr. Quinzel, the only danger I really faced at the moment came from… well, him.

Not that that was anything to sneeze at.

We reached the final flight of stairs, and he took the lead once again, grabbing me by the elbow as he swooped past me and jerking me along behind him, faster than before. I stumbled and lost my balance, and with a strangled, annoyed "Aghh," he pulled me up, set me back on my feet, and finished scaling the stairs.

We burst through the door out onto the roof, immediately met by a freezing sheet of rain. I gasped at the cold, but he seemed far from discomfited. He let go of my arm as the door swung closed behind us, walking out further onto the roof and turning his face up to the sky, eyes shut. He stretched out his hands and stood, stark-still, quite obviously enjoying the feel of the freezing drops as they shattered against his painted skin.

He didn't seem worried that I would take it into my head to run, and I have to admit, the idea scarcely crossed my mind as I stood there and stared, utterly transfixed. This was his first exposure to fresh air—as fresh as you could get in Gotham City, at any rate—in months, and he had missed it. Oh, it was too obvious that he had missed it.

For a moment, everything he had done, everything he would do—I remembered none of it. He was here, now, and he was absolutely beautiful.

I found myself moving towards him as if pulled, as if I had no volition of my own, and I halted just shy of him, unwilling to pull his attention away. The rain was powerful enough to draw streaks even in the greasepaint and his skin was showing through, though the makeup was stubbornly hanging on in most places.

Then, he opened his eyes, cocked his head, and said, "_Ahhh_. _So _glad you could join the party."

I realized that something had changed abruptly as he rocketed towards me, closing the short inches of empty space between us and getting an arm around my neck as he stepped swiftly behind me. I gasped as his arm tightened against my throat, coming back to reality with the realization that I had been an idiot, that I should have run when I'd had the chance (though in my defense, there wasn't really anywhere to go—even if the door _had _opened from the outside, how was I supposed to safely navigate the chaos downstairs?).

I had no idea what was happening till a guttural growl issued from one of the shadows on the roof, cluing me in to the presence of the visitor that the Joker had already seen (or sensed).

"Are you ever going to get tired of hiding behind women?" Batman stepped into view, out of the shadows where he'd presumably just arrived.

The Joker leaned forward to address his nemesis like a child assured enough of his safety to taunt a peer, the side of his face brushing the side of mine. "Well, they make such _fantastic_ shields; wouldn't you agree, _Batty_?" I felt the touch of slick, cold steel on the underside of my jaw, just above his arm, and I drew in a strangled breath.

Batman stood motionless, watching us. I got the feeling that the first chance he got, he'd attack, and I suddenly realized that I didn't want that.

I mean, sure, I'd be thrilled to be set free at this point—I had no assurance that the Joker gave a damn if I lived or died, after all, and I was far from suicidal. But I didn't want the Joker beaten to a pulp by this man, either. I'd seen what he'd done to Jonathan so many times, and it pained me to imagine the same injuries inflicted on the Joker.

My mind raced through the situation. The Joker stood behind me, his chest pressed against my back, arms looped over my shoulders, and so, as subtly as I could, I relaxed, hoping he would feel the lessened tension and understand that I had no intention of fighting him, at least not as long as the vigilante was on the roof. I smeared a look of panic over my face for the Batman's sake, though it might have been hindered by my wet hair, which was plastered to my face. I brought my hands up and locked them around the Joker's forearm, trying to give the impression that I was attempting to pry him away.

Batman deigned to speak again. "Leave her out of this. This is between you and me."

I could feel muscles twitching in my captor's arm, and I could feel his jaw shift, pressing into mine. I swear, he was all but trembling—with what? Excitement? Fear? I was fairly sure he was immune to the latter sensation, so excitement it was. He was burning up behind me, an impossible source of feverish heat in the freezing cold.

There was a mechanical humming noise coming from… somewhere. I tried turning my head to see its source, but the knife pressed into my throat and I immediately obeyed the silent order.

The Joker spoke, his voice growling in my ear. "You play chess, _right_?" The question was obviously rhetorical, since the Batman showed no indication that he was willing to answer. "The game's _essentially_ down to the two kings, buuut…" I felt a gust of warm, stale breath on my cheek as he presumably turned to look at me, and then a soft huffing growl as he turned back to Batman. "…pawns have their uses."

I felt an angry snarl distort my face. I was trying to help him out here. I didn't appreciate being called a _pawn_. I poked him in the stomach with my elbow, and was rewarded with a burning nick on the neck.

"Shhhh," the Joker hissed. "_Behave._"

Batman took a step forward, and the Joker tightened his grip, choking me. I coughed and gasped, causing the vigilante to halt sharply.

"I can cut deeper," the Joker said encouragingly. "All _you _have to do is keep going." Batman remained still, eyes fixed on us. "No?" the Joker whined in disappointment. "Then it looks like we're at a _stalemate._"

The mechanical humming had morphed into a whine, a whirring, and as we stood fixed on the roof, the source of the noise showed up suddenly.

It was a helicopter. A _freaking helicopter._

It shone spotlights on us, illuminating the dark tableau suddenly. The Joker started backing up rapidly, dragging me with him, and I stumbled and would have slipped in the cold rain had it not been for his arm around me, holding me upright. As we moved, Batman followed, his steps in perfect unison with ours.

A sudden thought struck me—_is he taking us off the edge?_

Before I could consider panicking, we stopped. I turned my head carefully, and this time, the Joker allowed me to. We were right on the edge of the roof. It was a very, very long way down. I swallowed hard and looked away immediately, my hands tightening instinctively on his forearm. _Not that that'll do any good if he jumps._

"Don't make this harder on yourself," growled Batman. "Let her go and this'll be easy."

"Ooh," purred the Joker. "Strong words from a man who's out of moves, _really._ But, as always, you face that _horrible choice._ Let the innocent die, or let the _bad guy_ go _free?_"

Oh, shit. This wasn't what I had signed up for. I started struggling for real this time, frantic to escape his grip, but this wasn't like the confrontation in his cell months before. This time, he had a knife to my throat, and even if he hadn't, his enthusiasm for his favorite hobby gave him an inhuman strength.

His voice picked up, a sudden current of excitement running through it like so much electricity. "Hey! You remember _this_ game, don't you?"

Then, his arm was around my waist, and I was off my feet. He was my only anchor as we spun. I turned my head sharply and caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. He was laughing.

Then… the fall.

I found myself plunging, hurtling towards the ground headfirst, _too_ fast, _too_ alone. I couldn't think, I couldn't scream—I couldn't even close my eyes.

I _couldn't_ think.

I couldn't _think._

And then—rough arms around my waist. I was being pressed into what felt like rock and screwed my eyes shut as I heard a whine. The thought _I'm going to die_ finally broke through into my consciousness.

A sudden very-physical jerk stopped my mind from repeating the thought. My eyes flew open, despite my very fervent desire to keep them shut.

We were still moving very fast, but… _forward_ instead of straight down, and we definitely didn't seem to be dying. I looked up. Batman's jaw was grim, clenched so tight that I thought dazedly that it was a wonder he wasn't cracking some teeth.

We were headed rapidly for a much shorter, very close rooftop, and as we whooshed over it he let go of me. I shrieked and tried to cling to him, but my hands slipped on the wet armor and I dropped, hitting the rooftop hard.

_I'm alive. I'm alive._

I felt the sudden absurd urge to kiss the roof, but was distracted by the sight of Batman landing mere feet away. He straightened up and his face tilted immediately towards the sky.

I followed his gaze as well. The helicopter was zooming away from Arkham's rooftop, presumably with my darling, _traitorous_ clown within. I clenched my teeth in anger—_that bastard_—and looked back at my unwilling rescuer.

He was hustling to the edge of the roof, and I stretched out a hand. "Wait—_wait!_" I cried out desperately. I couldn't explain it, but I did _not_ want to be left alone just then.

He didn't even pause to look at me. With an almighty leap, he flung himself from the edge of the roof, presumably to chase after the now at-large Joker. I sat there, soaking wet and trembling, for a few more minutes. Then, I stumbled to my feet and headed for the fire escape.

* * *

I walked home completely alone. I thought the cold and the rain might at least have the beneficial effect of driving away the dangerous numbness I had been feeling ever since Batman had left me on that roof. It did nothing but make me tremble harder.

My mind was moving in slow motion, so much so that I didn't even think about going back to the asylum for my car. Instead, I decided to walk home alone, in the cold rain, through the Narrows.

Yeah.

I was having trouble comprehending what had just happened. I kept going through it in my mind… over… and over… and over.

_Stratford dead. Stairs. Roof, rain. Batman. Him there, using me as a shield… helicopter, and then… the fall._

_He threw me off of the fucking roof._

I couldn't quite comprehend it. My brain was on lockdown, totally uncooperative. I forced myself to focus, tried to sort out how angry I was on a scale of one to ten.

I was surprised when the answer came back as a three. Maybe a four. I mean, Batman _was_ there, and his whole shtick was saving the innocent, right? I mean, sure, there was a pretty hefty risk involved, but the Joker usually planned things out beautifully. He had almost as much at stake as I did. If I died, then he'd go back to Arkham, probably transferred within days, probably somewhere with fewer crooked employees, where escaping would be much more difficult.

Being locked up in an asylum for the rest of his life probably rated the same as death in his eyes.

_You're justifying him, Harley. Why are you justifying him?_

I shook my head. I'd been defending him for a while now. I had to quit asking myself why. The answer was becoming clear, especially now that a near-death experience had thrown things into perspective, but… my mind was too dead to think about it now.

_He's gone. He's gone, and I don't know if I'll ever see him again._

The thought depressed me immensely. It also pissed me off.

_He threw me off a roof. I think I deserve an explanation. Maybe even an apology._

I slowly came to the realization that I was walking on a road where the street lamps had been smashed out—every last one of them. The sky was that sickly, dusky pink that came alongside thunderstorms in the city, and there was ambient light from windows and the occasional car, but for the most part, it was dark.

Too dark. And there were footsteps behind me.

You know, you'd think I'd be scared. I _should_ have been—footsteps in the dark in _the_ _Narrows_ were never a good thing. I sometimes felt scared just _driving_ home through this neighborhood, and until now, I had never been crazy enough to walk.

But, like I said, being thrown off of a roof throws some things into perspective.

They were getting closer, and picking up the pace. I heard muttering and catcalls behind me. Of course. A tiny blonde with a nice ass and rain-soaked clothes? I was a perfect target.

I didn't want it. I didn't want any part of it. I had just spent however many sessions with the most dangerous man in Gotham City, possibly the most dangerous man in the _world,_ and these punks expected me to cower in fear?

Never mind that I was unarmed. Never mind that martial arts weren't my forte. Experiencing one of my ever-more-frequent moments of temporary insanity, I whirled around and glared.

My pursuers stopped short. I didn't expect that this was usual behavior from their targets. There were three of them—one big, two short and slim, and they wore baggy pants and hoodies. Recovering a little, one whistled shrilly and the other two laughed. The big guy brought two fingers up in a V and thrust his tongue between them.

_Nuh-uh._ I lost it.

"YOU THINK YOU'RE DANGEROUS?" I screamed, making one of the smaller ones jump. "YOU THINK YOU'RE SCARY? DO YOU _ACTUALLY_ THINK YOU'RE BADASS? YOU HAVE _NO_ IDEA!"

I actually stalked towards them, like I was going to do something. My anger made me invincible. "You. _All_ of you. You're filthy pieces of SHIT. You can't even _compare_ to him, so if you don't get off the streets and stop trying, _I will show you scary_. _I WILL SHOW YOU SCARY!_"

They looked ready to pee themselves, but the big one at least was trying to put on a display of bravado. He stepped forward, flicking out a switchblade.

I sucked in a deep breath and screamed.

This wasn't your average terrified, I'm-about-to-be-raped-in-the-Narrows scream. This was pure insanity in female vocal form. Hearing the sound ripping from my mouth almost scared _me._

The three lost face. "Crazy bitch!" one of them cursed, and the two little ones bolted. Without his entourage, the big one folded. Muttering something about PMS, he turned and scuttled off, resembling nothing so much as a huge cockroach.

I surveyed the empty street and felt a surreal surge of self-satisfaction. That… that had been one of the biggest thrills I'd had since coming to Gotham, my sessions with the Joker excepted. I guess you could say one of my biggest _self_-_inflicted_ thrills.

It was incredible. The headrush was beyond anything I'd ever felt, including my high school trials with marijuana.

I started to giggle. Once I started giggling, it was hard to stop. It felt good—it felt _really_ good. So I opened up and started laughing. I laughed _hard._ I laughed until my stomach cramped up and tears were running down my face.

I stumbled towards home, laughing and laughing until finally, I couldn't tell if I was still laughing or if, somewhere along the way, the laughter had turned into sobs.

* * *

**A/N** - So, things are definitely happening now. Has Harley totally snapped? No, I wouldn't say she's COMPLETELY lost it just yet, even though being thrown off of a roof can pretty much mess with your head. Still, she still has to weather a few pushes… we've got some dangerous games coming up in the next few chapters, which will focus mainly on her development… which means, no, no Joker for a little while. No worries, though, you'll soon have an overload of Mistah J. I can only try and rush through to get you there.


	12. i'll sink this ship if i want

**Chapter Twelve**

_No, I don't need your supervision  
I'll sink this ship if I want.  
_**-Jenny and Johnny, _My Pet Snakes_**

I opened my eyes and realized that I was in my bed.

At first, I couldn't remember why I wasn't under the covers, why I was damp and cold and wearing the clothes from last night. I blinked in confusion and wondered exactly how much I had to drink the night before.

Then, I remembered—the breakout attempt. The fall. Batman, and the walk home afterward.

I blinked slowly. I had faced some would-be rapists and _scolded_ them. I actually _screamed_ them away from me. I think the Joker's crazy had rubbed off on me. The thought didn't seem as unappealing as it might once have been.

I slowly retreated to my shower, which I made as hot as I could stand. I blanked my mind out and just stood under the hot stream until the water turned tepid, and then I climbed out, wrapped myself in a towel, took a deep breath, and checked my cell phone.

I winced at the number of missed calls. Wilson, Arkham's Office, Wilson, Wilson, Arkham's Office, and a whole host of unfamiliar numbers. Apparently someone had been trying to get a hold of me for a while.

A knock on the door startled me. I cautiously went to check who it was through the peephole. Dr. Wilson stood there. I rolled my eyes and opened the door.

"Harley, what the _hell_—" he started, and then cut himself off and turned red as he realized that I was only wearing a towel.

"Hi, David."

He stared for a few seconds before finally pulling his eyes back up to mine. It still took him a second or two before he remembered what he was going to say. "Where have you _been_? Do you know what happened last night?"

"The Joker escaped after killing Stratford," I said dully. I wasn't naïve enough to think that I'd be able to conceal my involvement in the whole escapade. People were bound to find out, and if I lied about it initially, I would be making myself a suspect. I didn't want to answer a million questions from all sides, but if I didn't cooperate, I probably faced arrest.

Wilson stared at me for even loner this time, and then said, "Dr. Stratford's phone showed that he texted you around nine telling you to come to Arkham. I take it that you obeyed."

I nodded.

Wilson looked at me speculatively, warily, as though worried about what he might unearth. Very carefully, he said, "Harley, I know this may come out badly, and… please don't take this the wrong way, but… did you… _help_ him escape?"'

"I suppose you can argue that that's the case," I said casually. "I need to get dressed." I turned around and went back to my bedroom, shutting the door.

Seconds later, Wilson's voice issued from the other side: "Harley? What are you talking about?"

"Terrycloth is nice and all, but I don't think it's appropriate for outside of the house," I clarified. He ignored the sass.

"You helped him _escape?_ Are you crazy?"

"Hey, I never said I was a _willing_ participant. He took it into his mind to use me as a human shield." Having thrown on some underclothes, I opened my closet and looked into it pensively. As I debated my choices, I called, "Hey, David, do they know how he initially got out of his cell?"

"Umm… yeah. Apparently one of our orderlies was on his payroll. Howard. You know him?"

"He pulled Dr. Crane off me once during a psychotic episode. He was good at his job." I decided on a knee-length black skirt combined with a white tie-back top. The black said business, the white said innocence. If I was going to be interrogated, I would like to have as many weapons at my disposal as possible.

"He may have been, but he vanished after last night and was on shift when the Joker escaped. We think he was the one to let the other prisoners out, as well. Everyone on the Joker's floor—the really dangerous ones. A lot of them got away. It's a madhouse, Harley." I paused and waited patiently. Two seconds later, I heard the requisite curse. "That pun was completely unintentional and I apologize for it."

I smiled, pulling the blouse over my head. I always had appreciated Wilson's sense of humor. It popped up at the most inappropriate times, which I loved. Sometimes the serious shit just needed to be lightened up.

"You were his _hostage_?" he demanded, the level of my involvement in the previous night finally sinking through.

Appropriately attired now, I threw open the door. "Yeah. It kind of sucked. Look." I pointed at my neck, which sported a pale little scratch from the Joker's overeager knife, then, remembering, I glanced down at my wrist. The cut there wasn't quite as bad as I'd thought—it had scabbed over sometime during the night. I imagine the burning made it seem worse than it was.

"Shit," said Wilson politely, though I could tell he thought I was lucky to have gotten away with just that. A wry smile twisted my face.

"Oh, these were just the beginning. He threw me off the roof. Have you seen my heels? I could have sworn I left them out here."

Wilson did a very credible imitation of a goldfish. When he could finally speak again, he demanded, "He… he threw you… off the _roof_? Of _Arkham?_"

"Uh… yeah… but it's okay," I said, stooping to look underneath the TV cabinet. "Batman was there. He saved me… obviously. Dammit, where _are_ they?"

"Harley!" roared Wilson suddenly. Startled, I looked up at him. He stood there, furiously rubbing the area between his eyebrows. He tossed his head up and demanded, "What the hell happened last night?!"

I sighed, looked around, and spotted my shoes beside my recliner. I went over, strapped them on, sat down, and proceeded to summarize the night for him. I left out some dialogue, my semi-participation in the Joker's hostage act, and the walk home. Even so, when I was done, he was gaping at me.

"And now," I sighed, burying my damp head in my hands, "I'm guessing I'm going to have to deal with interrogation." I looked up at him, pasting a very pleading expression on my face. "David… I don't suppose you could speak up for me? I don't know… say that too much questioning could make me relive the trauma?"

He stared at me before answering, slowly. "If I thought… if I thought you were just asking me that to get out of the hassle, I would say no. But Harley… this man did a number on you. I don't know if you're even aware of it, but it's apparent to anyone paying attention that he's had an effect. I mean, the fact that you can accept this as _routine_, talk about it as matter-of-factly as you have… it's indicative of shock and some mental confusion, which I think is a result of extended contact with the Joker."

I peered up at him. "Is that a yes?"

He sighed. "You're going to have to face some interrogation," he said broodingly, "but I might be able to shield you from the worst of it." He cast me a worried look, but I was too pleased with the news to think much about it.

"Great," I said, popping up from the chair. "Just what I wanted to hear."

"I have a condition," he said warningly. I sighed and looked resignedly at him.

"What?" I asked warily.

"You have to consent to therapy. With me."

I gave him a sly look, attempting to throw him off. "David, are you coming on to me?"

"I'm serious, Harley," he said, obviously using a lot of self-control to keep from snapping. "I think that being exposed to the Joker and his ideas for as long as you were had some seriously adverse effects. I'd like to help you pinpoint these and get over them."

I sighed, and finally nodded. "I'm not crazy, David," I said firmly. Despite my tone, that giggly part of my brain that had emerged last night sang out _buuullshit!_ I ignored it. "But if it makes you feel any better, then fine. I'm perfectly willing to go through therapy with you."

He stared at me for a long time. I was tempted to tell him to take a picture, but dismissed the impulse on the grounds that it was cliché. Finally, he gave one tight nod. "Okay. Then you'd better come with me now. The police are swarming the place. It's only a matter of time before they come knocking on your door, and I'd rather you face them with me around than otherwise."

"Fantastic," I said sardonically. "Let's get out of here, then. I can't _wait_ to hear what they have to say."

* * *

Not much later, I realized that the examination rooms in Arkham were a lot less comfortable when _you_ were the one being interrogated. I'd been hoping for the room where I'd spent most of my time with the Joker, if only for the irony, but I had been shoved into a little room down the hall.

I also realized that the assistant to the head police inspector, a one Detective Larkin, was a creep.

I'd been sitting in the room for a good ten minutes before he saw fit to show his face. The second he entered, his eyes traveled over me and he got a tiny smirk on his face that was the next-door-neighbor to a leer. I knew right off that we weren't going to get along very well.

He took the seat opposite me, setting down a clipboard and a recorder and pulling a pen out of his pocket. "Doctor Quinzel? I'm Detective Larkin. This session will be recorded. Do you have a problem with that?"

I shook my head. "I have nothing to hide."

He gave me a look that said _we'll see about that_, and then pressed the record button and began.

"I understand from Doctor Wilson that you were present during the breakout last night—in fact, that you were with the suspect for almost the entire course of the getaway." He raised his eyebrows at me, asking for confirmation. Coolly, I mirrored the gesture.

I understood immediately that I had several options here, the first of which—being a smartass in order to make it clear exactly how much of an inconvenience this all ways—was the most tempting. However, I steadily resisted. _Not getting arrested _was still very much my goal for this little session, and though being a sarcastic little bitch might soothe the tempest of feelings I'd been dealing with since last night, it might result in serious problems in the long run.

I cleared my throat, made as if I was going to speak, then pretended to change my mind and just nodded mutely. Larkin smelled blood. He leaned forward and laced his hands together, watching me greedily. "Would you care to tell the story? In your own words, please."

I successfully held back a smirk. _Seriously. Whose words would I otherwise use? __His__?_ I refrained from smarting off, though, and proceeded to summarize the previous night for him in timid stammers. I eliminated any emotional undertones from the story, and once again, left out the walk home.

I left off with Batman dropping me off on the roof. Larkin stared at me as if expecting me to continue, and when I didn't, he leaned back in his chair again.

"What happened afterwards?" he prodded.

Inwardly, I sighed. The understanding that he was genuinely trying to do his job thoroughly didn't help me feel less put-upon. "I walked home."

"Through the Narrows?" he asked skeptically.

I gave him a smile that I hoped look wry and self-deprecating. "I'd just fallen off of a roof. I wasn't thinking clearly. It turned out okay. It was kind of a slow night in the Narrows—breakouts notwithstanding."

"Huh." He worked his jaw slowly, turning this over in his head, and then said, "Doctor Quinzel, it is correct that you'd been counseling the Joker for the previous two months?"

"Approximately, yes."

"Do you think that had some part in his choice of you as a hostage?"

_Yes. Yes. Of course it did._

"I sincerely doubt it," I said shakily. "The Joker had no way of knowing that I was at the Asylum last night. I was supposed to be safely at home. He obviously had a grudge against Stratford, and I was there. I was… convenient."

A momentary pang of doubt struck me as I remembered his comment about pawns, and I let the pain show on my face, hoping he would misinterpret it. What if what I'd just said was true? I mean, he really didn't know I would be there—did he really single me out, or was I truly just _convenient?_ Did I mean anything to him?

The thought that I might not… it hurt.

Larkin was saying something. "—against Stratford in particular?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

Larkin gave me a patronizing look that I was tempted to return with a glare. Instead, I managed a wan, apologetic smile, and he repeated, "Is there any reason that the Joker had a grudge against Stratford in particular?"

I paused, and then said, "I don't think I'm in a position to speculate."

Larkin raised his eyebrows. "I think out of anyone in this asylum, you would be in the _best_ position to speculate. You counseled him, he talked to you. Did he indicate anything?"

I stared at him for a second, and then unconsciously licked my lips. After a moment, I said, "This is pure conjecture, but I believe he held Stratford responsible for his incarceration at Arkham to begin with. I believe he also resented Stratford for trying to play games with him, switching therapists, switching tactics constantly. He's not a man who takes it lightly when you screw around with him."

"Did he say anything to Stratford that would indicate motive?"

…_this fine asylum needs a director worthy of it…_

I shook my head. "He just threatened him, and then, when he was done toying around…" I thought back to the murder, and to my surprise it didn't affect me nearly as badly as it had the night before. No bile, no shock, no horror. I felt… dispassionate.

The feeling surprised me. Surprisingly, I felt my lips start to tremble, as though I was about to cry, but emotionally, I was numb. The physical reactions weren't lining up with my mental process. It was… strange.

Larkin saw, though, and hurriedly said, "I understand." I saw the brief glimpse of abject horror in his eye. _Score. He doesn't want to deal with my crying anymore than I want to deal with his interrogation. _He hid it well, though, moving on to the next question as I pulled my face under control, stopping the trembling through sheer force of will. "Are you certain that the Joker retreated to the helicopter?"

I shook my head. "How could I be? For all I know, it could have been a police helicopter. He could have just pulled a disappearing act off of the roof. Even if the helicopter _was_ his, there's a chance that he sent it away just to distract Batman while he ran in the opposite direction."

Larkin quirked an eyebrow. "Seems like you've put a lot of thought into this."

"I spent the last two months trying to get into his head, trying to pull motive out of it. When it comes to parlor tricks, things get comparatively simpler."

"I see." He studied me for a moment, and then leaned forward again. "Doctor Quinzel, I understand there was some concern over your position as the Joker's counselor. Apparently, as time wore on, certain people began to sense a, uh… conflict of interests."

"Oh?" I wrought a credible expression of confusion. "How so?"

"It was implied that you were getting emotionally involved with the Joker."

I stared evenly at him for a moment, rapidly picking and arranging my words in my mind. Then I opened my mouth.

"I cleared this with Stratford, but since he's… gone… I suppose I'll have to go through it again with you. The only way into the Joker's head is to let him believe he has some form of power over you. If he believed that he was bending my way of thinking, if he thought that he was earning some place in my mind, or," I scoffed a bit, "_heart,_ then he would be a little more careless. He would believe he had my loyalty, and as a result he would spill more guts. Stratford knew of this strategy, and eventually approved it. Any _conflict of interest_?" I paused and raised my eyebrows before giving a disgusted little laugh. "Pure speculation on the part of bored doctors and nurses."

Larkin cleared his throat. "So, just for the record, you deny having any emotional attachment to the Joker that may have influenced you last night?"

I rolled my eyes. "Please. The man is a murderous sociopath. A woman would have to be crazy to be 'attached' to him."

Larkin stared at me for a second, and then nodded abruptly. "Very well. I think I have all I need from you now." He stood up, gathering his things. "You may be contacted later by someone involved with the investigation. I don't think you have to worry about testifying if we catch Howard, since you didn't see him all night."

I didn't say anything, just watched him clear everything up. It was clear that the session had unsettled him for some reason, but I couldn't figure out quite _why._

He looked around uncomfortably for a second, and then nodded at me as I stood up. "Goodbye, Dr. Quinzel."

"It was a pleasure meeting you," I said blandly. I walked past him to the door, and as I moved across the room, an orderly pushed it open for us. Larkin looked as though he would be quite happy to let me go out and leave him alone in the room, if just to rid himself of my presence, but I held the door open and raised my eyebrows.

"These doors lock from the inside, Detective," I said. "If you don't get out now, you may just be forgotten."

He gave me a rather unpleasant look, hustled across the room, and took the door from me. I walked out and headed down the hall.

* * *

Most of the day's work involved cleaning up after the mess. They'd rounded up several of the released inmates; those men were destined for solitary confinement and sedatives. I avoided Ortega at all costs.

Later that afternoon, as I was preparing to leave, actually, my stress was compounded by a call on my cell phone. I checked the screen to see that it was my father.

"Oh, great," I muttered, and hit the call button. In the time it took for my phone to travel from my desk to my ear, I realized that I hadn't heard from Pam since she had left, and I wondered why that was. She was due back tomorrow, and I'd fully expected to hear from her almost every day since she left.

"Hey, Daddy," I greeted him, summoning a smile, since he could always hear frowns in my voice.

"Harl," he said by way of greeting, "what's this I see on the news about the Joker escaping from Arkham? That's your institution, isn't it?"

I grimaced at the door. "Yeah, Dad. It happened last night."

I could hear him cough in disbelief on the other end. "Well, _how_? I mean, didn't they expect something like this? Didn't they pile up security?"

"They tried," I sighed, flopping into my chair and feeling my feet splay to the side. "It's hard to make sure everything's airtight in a city like Gotham, Daddy. There are a lot of corrupt people—"

I heard him sigh. "Same excuses as always, Harl. People in Gotham are always giving the same excuses, and I gotta tell you, I'm tired of them. It's an excuse to let things keep going to hell."

_Oh, Dad, they're already in hell._

I was silent, and he sighed heavily again. Then, he asked, almost sulkily, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, sir," I said. It would have been easier to be happier if it hadn't been clear that he was asking simply out of a sense of obligation.

"Good, then. How are you planning to get the man back?"

"Any number of ways, Daddy. They haven't told me much; I've been trying to deal with the aftermath. He let a lot of the other inmates go on his way out."

"Uh-huh," he growled. "I guess we can just hope."

"I guess so."

He sighed again, and then said, "I need to go. I just wanted to check in on you. Take care of yourself, all right?"

I smiled half-heartedly. "You too, Daddy."

"Don't let so much time go by between phone calls next time," he scolded.

"I've been kind of busy," I admitted.

"Too busy for your dad?"

"No. Never."

There was a pause, and then, "I love you. You know that, don't you, Harley?"

Despite myself, I felt my shoulders relax. Even though I doubted the sincerity of the statement from time to time, it was good to hear it. "Yeah, Dad. I love you, too."

He harrumphed, and then hung up. I took the phone from my ear, shook my head at it, and dropped it on the desk before burying my head in my hands.

* * *

**A/N** - This chapter marks the final breath before that inevitable plunge downward. It's irreversible come chapter thirteen, so y'all kiss your tater tots goodbye. (Can you tell that I haven't slept in a while?) Reviews are better than random shards of glass used as weapons against temperamental police! Thank you for the love!


	13. pair the joker with the queen

**Chapter Thirteen**

_We must rearrange reality  
Shuffle all the cards  
Pair the joker with the queen  
Just to make her scream  
_**-Jenny and Johnny, _Animal_**

I reported the next day for work. Wilson was acting as stand-in for Doctor Stratford until a more permanent replacement could be secured; he had taken control the day before and no one questioned it. Most of the staff was pretty shaken up and simply grateful that they didn't have to fill the vacated spot.

I was privately amused by the way everyone attempted to go about business as usual, to pretend that the whole Joker breakout fiasco had never happened. Never mind that we had just lost the crown jewel of Arkham patients. Never mind that several of our more dangerous criminals were still on the loose. We were going to soldier on, dammit. Stiff upper lip. Despite my amusement, I found it prudent to hide my smiles throughout the day. People were already looking at me like I was a time bomb waiting to explode; no need to exacerbate their fears by showing evidence of _inappropriate_ emotional responses (I figured it was just using gallows humor to get past a tough situation, but this was a building full of shrinks—they'd be all over that symptom).

The work Wilson assigned to me, though, _was_ laughable. A therapy group for patients almost finished with their rehabilitation. A new patient, checked in by her family because she had killed her cat—an incident, she assured me, that happened to be a total accident. Paperwork. I was bored to tears.

Throughout the day, though, I became aware that a sense of anxiety was incubating and growing inside my mind. I hadn't heard from Pam. She was due back on the eleven AM flight—surely she would have called me when she got home?

With this in mind, I signed out as quickly as I was allowed, at five on the dot. From Arkham, I made a beeline for Pam's place, imagining all sorts of scenarios that would have prevented her from calling, ranging from funny to fatal.

When I pulled up outside of her apartment complex and saw the police cars there, I persuaded myself that they must have been there for someone else. After all, it was a relatively rough neighborhood. I'd told Pam time and time again that she and I should get a place together in a nice area. Well, somewhere that could be considered "nice" for Gotham.

The knot in the pit of my stomach, though, wouldn't let me lie to myself.

I ran up to her apartment, taking the stairs two at a time, but I stopped, frozen, in the hallway. Her door was open. Policemen were going in and out.

Without any help from me, my feet took me forward. _Pam, what on earth have you done?_ I thought desperately, feeling that knot twisting in my stomach, fear so acute that I could practically taste it.

A policeman intercepted me at the door—a young guy, nice-looking, but all I could think as I stared wide-eyed at him was that he was probably crooked. Weren't they all these days? "Excuse me, ma'am, you can't go in there," he said, perfectly polite, holding out an arm to block me.

I grasped him by the forearm. "Where's Pam?" I asked, looking him dead in the eyes. I saw recognition register there, and then he shook his head.

"Miss…"

"Doctor Pamela Isley. She lives here. She was meant to return home this morning. What happened? Where is she?"

He looked over his shoulder, into the apartment. I craned my head to see—it was hard to look past him; he was so much taller than I was. I caught a flash of several other men in blue before he shut the door and took my by the shoulders, steering me aside.

"What's your name?" he asked softly, in a tone that spelled bad news.

"Harley. Harley Quinzel," I said, stumbling over my words. "Pam's my best friend. She was on the eleven AM flight home today, home from Egypt. Where is she?"

"Miss Quinzel… I sincerely regret having to tell you this, but… Doctor Isley went missing in Egypt, and I have to warn you that there's a large likelihood that she's dead."

I sensed the words before they actually came and blocked my brain off to them before they could pull up any emotional response. "What? No—wait, what are you _talking_ about?"

"Hotel staff called in to report the sounds of a struggle coming from her room, and when the police arrived, they found… considerable bloodstains on the carpet but no body. Testing later confirmed that the blood belonged to Dr. Isley. It was… a considerable amount."

This managed to penetrate the flimsy mental barriers I'd thrown up—honestly, it wasn't as if my mind was at its strongest—and I twisted away from him, feeling my face contort and my chest start to ache. "Oh, no, _no_…" _Stop thinking about it,_ I told myself sharply. _Stop thinking about it. Focus on your breathing; don't cry. You've got to get some more information. You have to find out how. _I turned back to him. He had reached out a hand as if to touch my shoulder, but I batted it away. "You can't _know _she's dead. How do you _know?_"

He looked regretful. "No," he said gently, "no, we can't _know… _but it doesn't look good. There was a lot of blood, and she would have likely contacted police or sought help somewhere, considering her injuries. The only reason she wouldn't is because she can't."

"Well, what about abduction? What are the people in Egypt doing?"

"They're conducting an investigation there. We're doing the same here. We're looking—" He cut himself off, and my gaze sharpened.

"What aren't you telling me?" I asked immediately.

He seemed to be having difficulty holding my stare. After a second, looking at his hands, he asked, "Miss Quinzel, did she ever mention a Doctor Jason Woodrue?"

I could feel my eyes growing wider. "Y-yes. He was her boss. Why?"

"Did she ever sound… intimidated by him? Afraid?"

I ground my teeth together so tightly that my jaw cracked and growled, "_Why?_"

He suddenly looked unsure, as though he shouldn't have brought this up, but he knew that I would have this information from him sooner or later. Hesitantly, he said, "Woodrue… a man fitting his description is on camera as buying a ticket back to Gotham City that same night—this was two days before they were meant to return. He's… the primary suspect. That's why we're here; we thought he may have come to her apartment in an attempt to… set it up to make her disappearance look like something it wasn't."

And just like that, all temptation to cry vanished completely. My breathing leveled out. I curled my hands into loose fists and put them in my pockets. "He killed her?" I asked calmly.

"I'm not allowed to say that," he said quickly. "But… he's the suspect we're pursuing, and considering the fact that he hasn't checked in with work and fled Egypt so abruptly… I don't know what to tell you, Miss Quinzel, other than that we're doing the best we can to find him and hope we can get some closure on this issue."

I stared at him in silence, long enough that he began to get a little twitchy. "Um," he said, "I, uh… I understand how difficult this must be for you to hear. The station keeps the contact information for a few grief counselors. If you need it—"

I laughed. It burst out of me, sudden and loud, and he actually took a step back, recoiling from the unexpected response. "I'm sorry," I said, trying hard to restrain the sudden giggling fit, failing, "I—it's just… I'm a shrink, myself."

"Oh," he said, struggling to sound polite, but I could read his expression as clear as day—_lady, I feel sorry for your patients._

I laughed once more, and then suddenly found the self-control I had been looking for and pulled it all back, leaving my face clear and calm. The young officer had really been quite helpful, so I tried to catch his eye, but gave up when he seemed to be trying to look anywhere but at me. "Thank you very much for your assistance," I said politely.

He opened his mouth, glanced at my face, then closed his mouth again and just nodded tightly. I got the feeling that words defied him at the moment, and that was fine with me. I walked past him, hit the stairs, and went straight to my car.

On that ride home, I realized that as of now, I had lost everything that had been important to me three months ago. My work? Why bother? Should I really waste my energy counseling men like Woodrue, men who killed and maimed beautiful women like Pam?

I was convinced it had to be Woodrue, and not just because of his suspicious behavior. His motive was spotless, after all. Woodrue was jealous. Pam was in his exact field, and judging from what I'd heard her say, her brilliance surpassed his by a long shot. Where he was a brooding, boring incompetent, she was a beautiful, glowing, genius of a young woman. Surely he could see that she would soon outstrip him, posed a threat to his job. Surely he could see how he would benefit from eliminating the threat.

It was powerful evidence of his insecurity, his greed, and it disgusted me.

And as I drove, I found myself comparing him to the Joker.

The Joker killed to create a balance. He killed to achieve something. He had no personal stake in it, no real reason to live, no reason to die. He was neither greedy nor altruistic. He simply _did_ because it was _him_.

The difference between the two grew starker and starker until I realized where my allegiance must lie. I couldn't keep coming to the defense and aid of these men like Woodrue, these selfish criminals who killed in an attempt to validate some weaselly need for power, to rid themselves of perceived threats, who after their "rehabilitation" would be released to kill again.

If I was honest with myself, what the Joker did had always made far more sense to me. He killed, true. He killed people like Pam. He _also_ killed people like Woodrue. He did so with no purpose. He did so not out of spite or any vindictive personal reason.

He was fair. The perfect executioner.

Killers must exist. The world would never be perfect. If killers must exist, then I would far rather have the Joker than murderers like that bastard Woodrue, or like Ortega or Victor Zsaz.

I needed to find him.

_Oh,_ I needed to _find_ him. I needed to tell him he was right. I needed to tell him I understood, that he was a force of nature, that I would work to keep him away from prisons like Arkham. That I would help him.

The Joker would kill people like Pam, innocent people who had a big chance of being killed by the resident psycho in their lives anyway—but he would also kill people like Woodrue, who would otherwise fall into the hands of the far-too-lenient legal system and get a slap on the wrist before being released back into the midst of the innocents. Keeping him out there evened the odds for the innocents, who without him would have to fear the unchecked masses of greed-mongering murderers.

I saw now. I saw everything perfectly clearly.

My eyes were open.

* * *

I awoke suddenly.

I was disoriented at first—for the second night in a row, I didn't remember returning to my apartment, let alone getting in bed. I sat up, and as a headache struck, wound my hand into my hair and tried to remember.

After a few seconds, my memory returned. Nothing had happened on the way home—I simply remembered getting to the apartment and feeling exhausted by all the emotional turmoil. The headache, I attributed to the irregularity of my sleeping schedule, if not all the pushing around my body had been subject to lately.

I looked over at the clock—eleven PM. I'd be exhausted by the middle of my shift, since it would be impossible for me to get back to sleep now, but that didn't matter. Now that I was somewhat refreshed, albeit groggy, my priorities sorted themselves out and one rose very clearly to the top of the list.

I had to find him.

I put on some coffee and went to my computer, pulling up a browser. The first place to start would be the website for The Gotham Times. If he had reintroduced himself to public life, they would have something on it. I pulled it up and entered a search for The Joker.

I found numerous articles about his escape, several full of bald-faced fabrications that had me laughing aloud as I scrolled through them. There were one or two about attacks the previous day that may or may not be related to him, but there was no tangible proof. Everyone was on hyper-alert, every car that went missing, every mystery homicide was being attributed to him, so I discarded them impatiently.

I searched other Gotham-based news websites, resorting even to a few gossip rags that were full of clearly made-up trash. I burst into giggles after happening upon an article about Batman and the Joker's "SECRET and NAUGHTY ROOFTOP RENDEZVOUS." It would be quite something if that angry tension between them was a result of pent-up sexual attraction, sure, but I just didn't see it. Anyway, I was forming several designs on the Joker, myself. It would have been unfortunate indeed if Batman was hot for him.

After scanning more websites, branching out to the surrounding counties of Gotham to hunt for news of break-ins in growing desperation, I finally sat back, disgruntled. There was nothing—but then again, I hadn't exactly expected him to jump right back into the swing of things. He'd probably need time to get oriented.

As I sat there, chewing a lip in frustration, thinking over past conversations that we'd have that might give some hint to his motives once he was out of Arkham, something came to me.

_Banbury Cross._

It could mean nothing. It could mean only what I had interpreted it to mean in the beginning; just a reference to an old nursery rhyme meant to divert me temporarily. However, from my time with the Joker I deduced that he never said anything without purpose (whether that purpose was to lead his audience to wild and false assumptions, though, was one for the jury). Everything was intentional with him, measured out carefully.

So, following the hunch, I went to Google and typed in "Banbury Cross Gotham City".

There was no Banbury Cross.

There _was_, however, a Banbury _Crossing_, a train stop in Old Gotham. I found a map of the stations, and then a more detailed map of Old Gotham that detailed Banbury Crossing. It was mainly a commercial area, but there was an apartment building nearby.

It couldn't be a coincidence. It had to be my ticket to finding him.

I brushed my teeth and hair and changed from the now-wrinkled work skirt that I'd fallen asleep in into some tight jeans. I grabbed my purse and keys and headed for the door, but at the last minute I turned around and went into the kitchen.

My father had given me a really nice knife set when I had moved out to go to college. It was a thoughtful gift, and I had taken care to keep them razor-sharp. I took the chef's knife out now and wrapped it in a thin washcloth before pushing it into my purse. You never knew.

I went to my car and started driving. It took some time, but I was sharp from the hours of sleep I'd gotten and there wasn't much traffic. I made it to my destination without incident.

I realized as I pulled into the parking lot for the apartment building that the whole thing was condemned. Oh, boy. I fumbled in my glove compartment for a flashlight, started panicking when I couldn't find one, and then discovered a small light in my center console. It was insufficient, but it would have to do. There were rotting barriers blocking the building off, but I climbed over them easily.

The door had been long ago kicked in by junkies, and so it provided no trouble. I began to get a sinking feeling at the ease of the whole operation—surely he wouldn't be in a place so easily accessible.

The inside of the building had the stale scent that came from contained air being too still for too long. My heart sank. There was no way anyone lived here—I doubted that anyone had even stepped inside in a very long time. It was too still. However, I was determined. I hadn't come here for nothing. "Banbury Cross" was the only discernible hint that the Joker had given me. The building was only three stories high and the hallways weren't particularly long. I started trying doors.

Many of them were locked. Many of them had been kicked or broken down. There was evidence that squatters had hidden out in many of the rooms, but I wasn't unfortunate enough to happen upon any.

In the very last room I tried, I found something. The door was unlocked, as supposed to beaten down, and swung open easily. I stepped in dubiously, and found that this room smelled… different, somehow. Newer. It didn't make sense, but there it was.

In the very back corner I saw a spot of white, and I advanced carefully, making sure I didn't trip over any hidden _gifts_—I wouldn't put it past him to booby trap the place just for shits and giggles.

It was a playing card. More than that, there was a queen of hearts clearly displayed on the front. I flipped it over, looking for something written on it, but there was nothing.

I sighed, frustrated, and tucked it into my pocket. Maybe he'd left something on it that I wasn't seeing. I wasn't willing to believe that it was a coincidence, not in this circumstance. There was a reason he'd led me here, and there was a reason I had picked up the card.

It irritated me a little, though, that he'd hid it on the third floor, in the very last room on the right. He must have found the idea amusing. I should known better than to look at the beginning—I should have started with this room and worked my way backwards.

No use crying over lost time. I went back to my car and drove home, my mind burning the entire way.

* * *

The instant I got to work that morning, I was confronted by Dr. Laurence. His forehead was knit in confusion as he came down the hall at me. "Quinzel! Are you all right?" I frowned as I realized how strange my name sounded coming from his mouth. Most people just called me Harley nowadays.

"Of course," I said, shooting him a wary, don't-spook-the-crazy smile. "Why shouldn't I be?"

He mimicked my look almost perfectly, sans smile. "I… um, I heard about your friend. Dr. Isley. I'm really sorry."

My smile stayed frozen on my face as pain lanced through my heart. I hadn't been thinking about Pam—I'd been focusing my efforts on finding my escaped patient. I didn't _want_ to think about Pam, about the fact that she was gone. "So am I. But people die. You have to build up a callus to it or you'll spend most of your time crumpled up and crying, right?"

"Um… I know it's been hectic, but even so, you know you don't have to be here today, right?"

I raised my eyebrows. "I've missed enough work lately as it is. Thanks, Laurence, but I'll be fine." I turned and walked away, heading to a session with the cat-killer.

Predictably, as soon as I got out, Wilson was there waiting for me. Abruptly, he said, "Follow me," and turned around, heading for his office.

_Laurence is __such__ a tattletale,_ I thought, unable to summon up any worry. After yesterday, work just wasn't a priority anymore. I followed Wilson to his office and sat when told, crossing my arms and waiting patiently for him to tell me what I already knew.

Wilson stared down at me for a moment and then asked, "Harley, why are you here?" Oh, great. Now I was having flashbacks to high school.

"Well, David, I work here," I said softly. I fought the urge to lay on even more sarcasm because he looked pretty angry. Best not to push him too far.

"Obviously, but your best friend just went missing," he said bluntly. "In addition to what happened with the Joker the other night, I'd say that you deserve a few days to yourself. Frankly, I'm stunned that you're here."

"Work keeps me busy," I said simply.

"Yes, busy avoiding dealing with the emotional trauma you've experienced," he said flatly. "Avoiding the issue is easy but unhealthy, and Harley, you've been taking that unhealthy road more and more lately. I'm worried."

"I know you're worried," I said in a dull monotone, already extremely bored with this discussion. "You don't need to be—I've already agreed to undergo your therapy; what else do you want?"

"I'd like if you started exhibiting some more normal behavior," he said, leaning back against his desk.

"Define _normal_."

"Taking a day off, for one," he said, stretching his hand out towards the door in frustration. "Crying when you've dealt with serious issues—being thrown off the roof, for instance, or losing your best friend. _Talking_ to people you care about. Dropping this new sarcastic attitude—it's not _you,_ Harley, and it's just more evidence that you're not well"

I looked up at him then, keeping my face blank, totally unassuming. "Okay. You're the doctor. Fix me."

He stared at me for a long time after I said that. Finally, he said, "You sound like him."

I arched an eyebrow at him. "I don't remember him ever saying that."

"Not the words. The _tone._ You just… you sounded like him." When I didn't reply, he sighed heavily, as though the weight of the world was suddenly settling onto his shoulders. "I want nothing more than to help you here, Harley. But _I _can't… _fix_ you. That's something you have to start yourself, and I can help you along the way if you decide to help _me_."

I said nothing. I figured playing the role of the petulant child was a perfectly appropriate response. "Go home," Wilson said abruptly, straightening up and heading for the door. "I'll call you soon. Maybe we can sort some things out—but not here. I don't want you around patients right now."

I got up and slipped wordlessly past him out into the hallway. I was walking away when he called after me. "You're changing, Harley."

_You have no idea._

"Maybe you can stop yourself before it's too late," he finished.

I didn't turn around. I kept walking. How could I tell him that I didn't _want_ to stop? How could I tell him that I was grasping at this change with both hands, hunting after the Joker like a junkie after a fix? _No, that's not right—like an agnostic seeking a savior._

I couldn't. There was no way to explain to him the truth—that the Joker had become my one chance for survival in this city.

* * *

**A/N** - So earlier, while I was writing review responses, I realized something. Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who has long been a favorite actor for many different reasons and a favorite human being for many others (one of which is that he's actually open to connecting with and inspiring his fans for the long-term instead of just signing autographs and forgetting faces) is working with Chris Nolan on Nolan's upcoming project. Nolan directs the Batman movies. Joseph Gordon-Levitt often resembles Heath Ledger and has similar acting chops, in my humble opinion. Now, I think that Ledger's Joker was absolutely excellent and I don't want to see him replaced. However, if he IS replaced... I want it to be by Joe. And Nolan working with Joe now means that he'll see Joe's skills for himself and at the very least will maybe cast him again because Nolan reuses actors. I'm excited. I trust them both. We'll see what happens.

All right, boys and girls, I think that's it for tonight! Be patient for just a little longer; the Joker makes his anticipated re-appearance with the very next chapter! (And there's also another Crane cameo! Can I get a cheer?) In the meantime, however, reviews are cooler than dozens of drums full of gasoline wired to blow.


	14. come crying to me now baby

**Chapter Fourteen**

_I'll be seeing you again  
I'll be seeing you in hell  
Come crying to me now baby  
Dead end zone for a dead end girl  
_**-The Misfits, _Die, Die My Darling_**

There was no way I was going to just sit at home. I didn't have anything to do there; I couldn't call Pam anymore and there was no way I was going to try to contact my Dad. Even as I dismissed the idea of calling my father, though, I was tempted by it. It might be nice to go home and take a few days, think things through and sort out my plans—but no. No time. I had work to do.

I went upstairs to visit Dr. Crane. It had been a long while since I'd seen him, almost two months since I had been banned from talking to him. Now, I figured, was as good a time as any. I got the feeling that this would be a goodbye. I didn't know if I would ever be coming back to Arkham.

He was in his cell, sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up, staring at the wall. His spine was rigid and he was watching the white expanse intently.

I stepped up to the glass. "Dr. Crane?"

He turned his head. He looked at me. And he laughed.

He laughed like he _wasn't_ locked up in a giant cage, like the world _wasn't_ going to hell, like laughing was going out of style. He just sat there and howled at me until he cried and gasped for breath like a drowning man. Dr. Jonathan Crane didn't lose composure like that. I'd barely seen a chortle out of him; snide smirks were much more his style, even when he was crazy.

I wanted to know what the joke was.

"What's so funny?"

He pushed himself off of the floor and wandered over to the glass, trying to regain his composure and wiping tears away. He pressed his hands to the glass at his chest level. "Have you looked at yourself lately, _Dr. Quinzel_?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Did my makeup just this morning. What, is there something on my face?"

He shook his head and raised a hand, tapping his index finger on the glass just in front of my face. "You're completely insane." His voice was as mellow and calm as it had been on the best of his lucid days; he may as well have been discussing the weather… or, as was more typical of him, Schrödinger's cat.

"No, I'm not," I said defensively.

"Yes, Dr. Quinzel, you are," he said, the smile fading away as his voice took on a somber tone. "In fact, it's my professional opinion that you'll be gracing the halls of Arkham as an inmate quite soon if you don't get out of here."

"Aw, but then I'd miss your charming company," I retorted.

He worked his jaw thoughtfully. "Since you bring it up, I was told that the last time you visited me, I tried to kill you." I nodded in confirmation, and he nodded back. "My apologies, Doctor. I wasn't myself. May I ask why you're visiting now?"

"I just got kicked out. Not officially, but I have the sense that a pink slip isn't far away," I said pensively. It registered somewhere in my mind that I was confiding my troubles to a crazy man—but then, what else was new?

"Ah. Well, don't be discouraged," Crane said calmly. "This place chews people up and spits them out. Rumor has it that Doctor _Stratford_—" he pronounced the name with cool contempt, narrowing those big blue eyes of his into slits—"got the knife." Crane had, on his lucid days, been quite vocal about Stratford's inability to run the asylum. In his opinion, Stratford was a grasping idiot.

Then again, Crane had used his authority over the asylum to drug the whole water supply. I never thought that he had the right to critique the tactics used by other directors.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You're an inmate, Doctor. How do you get all these _stories_?"

He shrugged casually and said, a hint of arrogance pervading his tone, "People talk. I just know how to listen." He shook his head at me. "It's a shame about you, though. You always were an interesting student. You responded well to the abusive treatment I leveled at all of my students. It was as though you thrived on the very thing that frightened and hurt others." He looked speculatively at me. "I should have liked to have a chance to observe you closer. Ironic that the first time we met outside of the university, _you_ were observing _me._"

I managed a wry smile. "I see you've gotten back in touch with what's left of your sanity, Dr. Crane. You planning the breakout yet? It's a shame you missed your chance the other night."

His face went blank. "It's been nice catching up," he said calmly. "Don't you have somewhere to go now?"

I smirked. "Goodbye, Dr. Crane. I hope to see you out on the streets again soon." He kept his face tranquil and blank, but a glance over my shoulder revealed that he was watching me thoughtfully as I walked away.

* * *

I reached my home and changed out of work clothes, favoring a pair of pinstriped black pants that were comfortable for all their stylishness and tight around my hips—that way I didn't have to worry about them riding down while I was running. I topped them with a blood-red v-neck and topped the ensemble with a fitted black faux-military jacket, which I left open.

I packed the pockets of the jacket with my keys, wallet, a flashlight, the Joker card I'd picked up the previous night, and a pair of mini-binoculars. I was going back to Banbury Crossing, and I was going to figure out why it was significant. I'd be damned if I was going to give up that easily.

I put my hair up as I left the house. I felt like I was preparing myself for a fight. I didn't know why; I just had that feeling. Maybe I was going crazy. Either way, I felt like a badass.

I drove back to the Crossing and ducked into the building again, some of my courage from earlier wearing off once I was back inside. I didn't have a knife with me this time—if some junkie squatter was inside and got spooked, I might be in trouble. Still, I had relative confidence in myself. I could run fast and, given the opportunity, punch hard. I kind of felt like beating something up, anyway.

I went upstairs to the room where I'd found the card and started looking around. I didn't see anything amiss. There was literally nothing. It pissed me off.

"Where are you, J?" I asked the empty room aloud.

I went to the window. It was boarded up, but there was a gap of visibility between slats. I took out the binoculars and fitted them to my eyes, looking out, wondering if I might be able to see another building suitable for a hideout from this room. _Maybe that's why he left the card here—to tell me I'm on the right track._

That's when I heard the noise.

It was a cracking sound from downstairs, like somebody's foot colliding hard with wood, loud for its distance. I jumped and gasped, whipping around towards the door. There was nothing after that.

Fear told me to stay put in the room, to try to lock the door and hope that whoever it was would just go away without finding me. However, curiosity drove me. There was a chance that it was him.

Carefully, cursing every lazily creaking floorboard, I moved out to the stairs and looked down.

Clowns.

More accurately, men in clown _masks_. There were three or four of them, heading up my way. One of them looked up as I glanced down at them.

_Ohshit._

Instinctively, I darted away as he shouted out, running away from the stairs and—well, where was I going now? There wasn't another set of stairs, I would die before setting foot in the rickety elevator that probably didn't even work anymore, and they would find me in any room in which I chose to "hide."

I was at a dead end and the guys were getting closer. I ended up darting back into the room where I'd found the card, slamming the door and shoving my shoulder against it in an attempt to hold it shut.

_Wait a minute, Harley._

_These guys… they're in clown masks. Guess who hires minions and makes them wear clown masks? They're with him, probably—I don't think imitators or wannabes would be well-received at all._

Yeah, but they didn't strike me as the type to ask questions first and kill later. They saw me in their territory, they saw a threat, and they were probably going to try to kill me. Right now I had to survive.

I fumbled at the lock. There was no switch; it required a key. I cursed aloud as a heavy body slammed into the door, pushing it open a few inches before falling away and allowing me to shoulder it shut again.

I shrieked when another attack forced the door mostly open. This time, it didn't slam shut again—someone got an arm through, reached around and clawed at my face, eventually finding my hair and jerking on it, pulling me closer to the opening.

I was screaming, they were shouting at each other, there was a whole lot of confusion, and so I missed whatever the sound was that made them all shut up. All I knew was that everything went suddenly quiet. The hand let go of me and slid back through the opening, and the door, under my weight, slammed shut again.

I gasped for breath, trying to recover from the scare as I listened to the movement in the hallway outside. Everything grew eerily quiet, and then:

"_Please…_ open the door."

It was him. I was still for just a second, and then twisted around, shoulder still pressed against the door. A tiny shred of rationality still remained, and it weakly protested _no, don't, he could kill you…_

I didn't listen. I threw the door open to find a semi-automatic pistol pointed at my face.

The Joker didn't seem particularly surprised to see me, though he arched his eyebrows. He didn't lower the gun, instead looking patronizingly over his shoulder towards his men and saying, "_See?_ Sometimes all you gotta do is _ask._"

He dropped the pistol to his side and entered the room, moving his spare arm in a sweeping motion, gesturing for his men to follow. He was dressed as I'd never seen him before, in a long purple greatcoat over a green-and-purple suit, wearing shining purple gloves over his hands. His makeup was on—not perfect, smeared in places, but definitely there.

I had to admit to myself, purple suited him better than orange.

The men rushed in and I backed away from the door—despite (or perhaps because of) the Joker's appearance, I didn't exactly feel safe. However, they ignored me, following their boss, who was looking around the room.

The man in question pointed at the back wall. "There," he said. The clowns moved without question—I noticed a little late that two of them were carrying axes, I thanked providence that they hadn't jumped straight to Jack Torrance tactics when they were on the other side of the door from me. With that thought fresh in my mind, I couldn't help but flinch when they started hacking into the wall, sending a sheet of dust towards the ceiling as the plaster crumbled and fell.

I was a little fascinated by the process, curious as to why they were demolishing the wall, so I was watching vigilantly when I felt the air change as someone moved to stand beside me.

I turned my head and looked up. He was there, steadily observing them as well, and when I looked, he rolled his eyes to the side, towards me, and turned his head slightly. He regarded me with a curious look but said nothing.

My breath escaped from me in a rush. "Hi." It was a completely inane thing to say, of course, and my voice sounded unnaturally breathy even to my ears, but it didn't matter. I had found him. I had found him, and I wasn't intending to let him out of my sight anytime soon. Of course, I had no delusions about my abilities as far as that goal was concerned—if he wanted to abandon me again, he certainly could.

I was just hoping he _wouldn't_ want to.

"I was _hoping_ you'd show up," he said softly, and my heart started beating faster.

"You said… Banbury Cross," I said the moment I trusted myself to speak. "I did some research. I was here earlier, but… there was no one."

"Of course not. _This_—" and he stretched out his arm, indicating the quickly-disintegrating wall—"is a storage facility." _Funny-looking storage facility, _I thought, but was wise enough to keep that thought to myself as he added, "You know, I imagined our paths might cross."

I looked up at him and something belatedly occurred to me. "You threw me off of a roof," I said flatly. It wasn't exactly an accusation, but it wasn't lighthearted teasing, either.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the men turn his head abruptly towards us at the statement, and I imagined that the mask concealed a gaping jaw, but he quickly returned to work before the boss saw. The Joker sucked in a breath through his teeth, sounding slightly pained.

"Yeaaah," he said slowly, and winced dramatically. "I needed a _distraction_, ya know? I mean, if it's _any_ consolation, I knew he'd getchya." He leaned towards me, raising his eyebrows conspiratorially, practically pressing his forehead against mine. "I've seen him do it before," he said, as though he were letting me in on a big secret.

He was such a bastard, but I couldn't help but grin. He was the only one who never gave me any bullshit, who never tried to trick me or lie to me. He gave me the truth, and I couldn't help but love him for it. The truth was what I had decided to pursue, after all.

"My best friend was murdered the other day," I told him casually as he leaned back again.

"Ah?" he questioned, looking politely curious.

"By her superior. She was a genius and he wasn't. He got jealous."

"Ahh," the Joker said, clicking his tongue at me. "Nothin' like a good dose of _petty humanity _to clarify things, huh?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I think you could say that." I paused, and then rushed ahead. I was already slipping; might as well take the plunge courageously. "I've been trying to find you ever since."

"Uh-_huh._ Why's that?"

I hesitated, glancing briefly at the clowns. They'd finished tearing down the wall, revealing what appeared to be a miniature arsenal behind it. They were now loading up with guns—big guns. Little guns.

_One gun, two gun, red gun, blue gun._

"Because you were right," I said slowly, watching the guns and feeling my eyes slide out of focus as I retreated into my mind. "You were the _only one _who's ever been right. People are evil. They don't deserve protection; they deserve _exposure_. They need to see how evil they really are. Until they can see that, there's no way they can really change. Nobody's gonna waste time fixing a problem that no one sees."

He was very silent for more than just a few seconds. Finally, I felt a touch beneath my chin—his gloved hand, turning my face towards him. I pulled my eyes back into focus as he lifted my face up, staring straight into his blazing eyes until I thought mine might burn out of my skull.

"Are… you… _sure_?" he purred softly.

I took just a second—that hard stare, boring straight into me, made me panic, question everything I thought I'd come to understand. After a moment, though, I nodded. "Yes. I'm sure. I want to help you. I want to keep you from getting thrown back in that place. Just show me how I can do that."

A smile crinkled his face. "You're in _luck,_" he rasped, and let go of my chin, throwing his arm instead across my shoulders and pulling me tightly to his side. "A _position_ just opened up on our team. We could use a _shrink_—some of these guys, not so good in the head. Ah, _him,_ for example," he said, waving vaguely at one of the guys who had just lifted a load of guns. "Crazy as a _bat._"

The guy turned his head towards the Joker, and I got the distinct impression that behind the mask, he was giving the two of us a very dirty look. He quickly looked away, shouldered his burden, and slipped out of the room.

I didn't care. A new world had just opened up to me. Before this, although I would scarcely allow myself to think it for fear that it would ruin my resolve, I had expected to be scorned by him, to be thrown off of another building and left to rot. I hadn't imagined that it would be so easy.

But apparently, it was. Apparently, those sessions had meant everything I hoped they'd meant. Apparently, the Joker was just as happy at the prospect of continuing to see me as I was at the idea of getting to see him every day.

Nothing like finding out your crush is reciprocated, huh?

He lifted his voice and addressed his men. "Are you _through_ yet?" There was a curious note of impatience in his voice, and two remaining men hurriedly nodded, clearing the rest of the guns out from the wall and hustling from the room.

The Joker showed no signs of letting me go. In fact, he pinned me tighter to his side as he strolled from the room, leaving me the option of walking with him or being dragged along. I went willingly.

I was just beginning to realize how tall he really was. I was in flat shoes and the top of my head didn't _quite_ reach his shoulder. He already looked better than he had in Arkham. He looked like he'd had a few square meals and a full night's sleep. Freedom suited him.

"_So,_" he said as we hit the stairs, "it's, ah, _mighty_ convenient that you'd show up just now." Right foot, left foot—we moved in unison, at the same pace downstairs.

"I was going to say the same thing," I fired back. He let loose one sharp bark of laughter. I shrugged. "I'm tenacious. I wanted to find you and Banbury Cross was the only clue you'd given me. And I don't believe in coincidence." I swiveled my head, looking up at him. "You showed up at exactly the right time."

He pulled an innocent face that I didn't buy for one second. "Now, ya see, I'm lucky like that. How's the _dear_ old Asylum?"

It was my turn to make a face. _That_ place. Ah, well. If everything worked out, I wouldn't have to go back there. If I could find some way to stick next to J—if I could confirm that I actually _wanted_ to and this wasn't some temporary delusion brought on by Pam's death—then I could forget all about that nuthouse.

"It's… _almost_ exactly as you left it," I said hesitantly. "Doctor Wilson's kind of taken Stratford's place, and I imagine that means he inherited Stratford's need to control me."

"Well," said the Joker, licking his lips thoughtfully, "they _did_ hire you."

"True, but that doesn't mean they're responsible for my mental health." We'd stopped on the bottom floor, and he let me go, moving to stand in front of me and stare down into my eyes.

"Ah, yes, your _mental_ health," he purred. "How _are_ you, little Harley? Mentally, I mean?"

I looked uncertainly at him before steeling my spine and replying, "I'm seeing things more clearly than ever."

He turned away, laughing giddily at some private joke. I followed him outside, squinting in the sunlight. Someone (wonder who?) had haphazardly driven the gray van over half of the barriers blocking off the building, ending up parked almost inside of the door. The clowns were loading the guns into the back of the van.

"I hope you're not planning on going _home_ anytime soon," the Joker said conversationally as he watched the goings-on with an air of casual interest.

I shot a look at him, and sensing my gaze, he rolled his eyes to the side, looking at me out of the corners. "Oh, we _probably_ won't have time to stop by," he said. "There's just _so_ much to do." At this last bit, his tone was all but vibrating with dark excitement. I could only imagine—he'd been trapped in Arkham for three or four months; I was sure he was ready to get back into the swing of things.

"Boss?"

The Joker swung his head around, staring intently at the clown who had addressed him.

"You want me to drive?" asked the clown, looking uncertain—well, as uncertain as a being could look while wearing a clown mask.

"Do I want you to drive?" the Joker mimicked him. "Do I want _you_ to _drive_?"

The clown didn't reply, probably figuring that it'd be wiser to keep his mouth shut. After a tense moment where the Joker stared and the clown stood silent, the former shrugged. "Sure."

From the way the clowns raced to the front seat, it was clear that they didn't want to be stuck in the back with him. The first two climbed in swiftly, and the last one fell back resignedly as the Joker gestured for me to climb in through the back.

I obeyed. The back was separated from the front; there was a bench built into one side. The guns had been placed in cases stacked in the corner. Other than that, it was bare.

The Joker got in behind me, and when the clown stepped up to follow us, the Joker braced himself against the walls and planted a foot into his minion's chest, shoving him out of the back. "Catch the next one," he snapped, and pulled both doors shut in the clown's face.

The Joker turned back to me as the engine started. The look on his face was more intent than I'd ever seen it before, frightening in its perfection.

"Now," he sang, "let's get down to _business._"

* * *

**A/N **- So! Next chapter, the Joker and Harley do, indeed, get down to business. But, er, not the sort you might be thinking (it does not help that I have Flight of the Conchords' song "Business Time" stuck in my head). Certain things get established. I'm going to try and have it up by Thursday or Friday. In the meantime, thanks for being loving and patient, y'all!


	15. you're pretty when you cry

**Chapter Fifteen**

_I didn't want to hurt you, but you're pretty when you cry.  
_**-VAST, _Pretty When You Cry_**

Before I could question what he meant by that, he grabbed a handful of my hair and slammed my head into the side of the van. My head swam and my vision went black for a second or two, but I didn't lose consciousness—after those first initial moments, every sense rushed back to me in a dizzying wave. He held me there, pressed into the wall, as he crouched over me, so close I could smell him—sweat, a chemical smell, underscored by smoke.

"Now," he said softly, his breath hot in my ear as his voice dropped into an eerie growl, "what are you _really_ doing here?"

I was dazed, but I managed to blink some of it away, pressing my hands against the wall of the van in an effort to get out of the strained, uncomfortable position. I was crouched over anyway because of the low roof, but that added to having my face pushed hard into a metal wall? Not comfortable. "Augh," I snarled. "I _told_ you."

With another sudden movement, he grabbed me by both arms and flung me into the other side of the van, following me closely to plant one hand on either side of my head, ducking down and getting right in my face. "Ohhh, I see," he breathed. "So ya just _left_ your promising career to come chasing after little old _me_, is that it?"

"Yes," I snapped angrily. What was so hard to understand?

He tsked at me. "C'mon, Harley," he rasped. "We've _discussed_ this. You're a _schemer._ How would it benefit _you_… to be here with _me_?"

"If you didn't believe I would listen, then what was the point of lecturing me during all those sessions?" I snarled. "You _must_ have known you would have made an impact. Or do you have so little faith in your own powers of persuasion?"

His hands closed in, fingers wrapping around my throat and tightening. I flailed out in self-defense, feeling both of my fists connect hard with the solid flesh of his torso, but he just whooped and laughed in my face and tightened his grip further, pinching and bruising my throat.

He might just have decided to rid himself of the trouble and kill me right there, but just after I started panicking, the van took a sharp turn that sent us tumbling to the floor. He landed heavily on my arm, and as I cried out in pain he flipped over, covering my body with his, effectively pinning me down. He was heavier than I thought he would be.

"Per_suade_ me," he taunted, propping himself up on his elbows so that he could look at my face. "_Make_ me believe you."

I got the wild impulse to just throw caution away, to lean up and satisfy my curiosity about whether that mouth of his was really as soft as it looked once and for all. Something held me back, though—something told me that it wasn't the right move to make, not yet. He'd probably see it as just a woman using whatever tools she had at her disposal to make sure she got her way.

Trying to make out with the guy wasn't going to convince him that I was genuine.

I relaxed beneath him, pouring all of my energy into the heat of my glare. "Okay. How about this: even if I _was_ coming to you with the intention of… I don't know, betraying you, turning you into the police or luring you back to Arkham—"

"Well, you said it, not me," he interjected sarcastically. I hoped that my glare conveyed the sentiment _shut up!_ as strongly as I hoped it did.

"—do you really think it'd set you back? I mean, _at all_? When you inevitably found out, you'd kill me, and I'm not interested in _dying_ right now. Who's the more dangerous force in this equation—you, or Arkham's crack team of psychotherapists? Assuming I'm reasonably intelligent, who do you think I'm going to side with?"

He tucked his hands under his chin, looking impassively down at me. Had the expression on his face been coy, the move would have been very reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe, which is _not_ an icon I'd ever imagined myself comparing him to. The thought made me want to giggle. _Now is not the time._

"Mmm?" he questioned, signaling for me to go on. He hadn't tried to strangle me again. That was encouraging.

"_So,_ I wasn't just getting to know _you_ during those sessions—_you_ were getting to know _me_ as well. What'd you come away with? Am I really stupid enough to try and fight against you? And can you _please_ get off of me? It's getting _very_ hard to breathe!"

_Actually_, it was getting very hard to _think,_ since his long, lean body was stretched out over mine and his knee was propped absently between my legs and it was stirring up all sorts of incredibly distracting ideas, but I didn't think now was the right time to mention that.

_Harley, it's official. You're batshit insane—fantasizing about the guy who __just tried to kill you__. You shouldn't be turned on by that. Not healthy. _I attributed it to the concussion I believe I'd received when he bashed my head into the side of the van.

His mouth curled up nastily on one side and he didn't budge. "What about that _good world_ of yours?" he challenged me. "Are ya just _giving up_ on it?"

I lifted my head close to his, getting in his face as much as I was able. "That _world_ never existed," I spat. "_You_ showed me that. The only way it _can_ exist is if the world we inhabit now is torn apart, and _you_ can do that."

He leaned in even more, nudging my nose with his almost absent-mindedly. "And the _people_?" he hissed. The delicate touch, at odds with the violent man himself, was distracting. At the same time, it kept me perfectly focused on my motives.

I looked into his left eye, and then his right, and said, "Fuck the people. I'm here for you."

He drew back, either pensive or surprised, and emboldened, I continued, dropping my head back to the floor and staring at the ceiling as I recited, "That's my motive, all right? I just met you; I'm not willing to give you up yet. I think you can shake things up, and to be honest, I'm tired of struggling to find _meaning_ in life." I lifted my head again and looked him in the eye. "You promised me fun; I'm here to take you up on that."

I have no idea if this explanation satisfied him or not, but it must have struck some chord, because he got off of me, going over to the bench set in the opposite side of the van. I rolled over, got to my feet, and immediately wished I hadn't as a wave of dizziness hit me. I stumbled over to the bench and pulled myself onto it next to him, fighting nausea. I must have hit my head harder than I thought.

I looked over to see that he'd rummaged in his coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He thumbed back the top, fit his lips around one, and drew it out, bringing his other hand up simultaneously to light it. He inhaled, and when he noticed me staring, took the cigarette from his mouth and held it out to me, offering.

I shook my head. "I don't smoke." He shrugged.

"Your loss," he said, returning the filter to his mouth.

"I didn't know you did, either," I ventured.

He gave me an exasperated look, and I half expected him to say, _really, Harley?_ Instead, he gestured to himself, talking around the cigarette as though it wasn't even there. "Life expectancy for a guy like _me _is kinda _low._ Taking measures for the future—" he winked at me—"_doesn't_ really make that much sense, does it?"

"No, I… I guess not." My mouth started watering, and I leaned forward and buried my head in my hands. _Don't be sick. Don't throw up all over the floor of the car. Oh, Harley, __please__ don't do this to yourself._

"Something _wrong_?" the Joker questioned idly, just making conversation, not genuinely concerned.

"I… think I'm gonna be sick," I choked, trying to hold it back.

He sighed, and from the sound of that sigh would have you believe that he'd never dealt with such annoyance in his life. "Just… watch out for the shoes, wouldjya?" he snapped.

_Oh, I'm sorry,_ I thought viciously. _I just had my __head__ slammed into the side of a __van__ by a psychotic maniac who I've just decided to follow pretty much to the death. I'm sorry if I'm not feeling too hot._

It was my sanity, waving goodbye.

I focused hard on keeping my stomach under control, and after a few minutes the nausea faded slightly—enough so that I wasn't terrified of puking all over the van. It wasn't easy, especially with the back gradually filling up with thick, burning cigarette smoke.

The Joker, now that the business at hand had been dealt with, seemed perfectly content to lose himself in his own thoughts. He stared at the wall opposite, shoulders and fingers twitching sporadically as new ideas hit, his arm in almost constant motion, bringing the cigarette up to his mouth and down again. Up and down. Up and down. It was making me dizzy.

One flick of the thumb and the accumulated ash disintegrated, falling haphazardly to the floor of the van. Up again, and down again.

He finally finished and flicked the glowing butt into the wall, where the cherry shattered into a dozen little embers. Right about that time, the van lurched to a stop. The Joker got up, shaking his coat out behind him. He threw open the back doors, climbed out, and sang, "Welcome to our _humble_ home."

I stood and pushed a hand against the side of the van for support. The dizziness was in full swing again, but the nausea receded a bit more, for which I was grateful. I stumbled to the back of the van and looked dubiously at the gap between the floor and the ground. It wasn't that far, but I didn't want to shake my head up anymore—the nausea might come back.

The Joker apparently got tired of waiting for me to make a decision, and impatiently hooked an arm around my waist, swinging me down from the van. I clung to his shoulders, not trusting him to not just drop me, but my fears were ungrounded—he didn't let me go again until I was firmly on my feet. The man lifted me like I weighed no more than a doll. It made me feel utterly powerless and utterly exhilarated at the same time.

Disconcerted at the thought, I looked away to see that the clowns had climbed out of the van and were staring at us, shoulders slightly hunched and frozen masks angled towards us. I got the idea that they hadn't expected me to live through the ride home.

The Joker shot them a malevolent look and stepped away from me. "This way, fellas," he hummed, walking towards the building that I was just now seeing. It was big, broken-up, and looked empty. There were boarded windows and the brick walls were chipped and covered in graffiti. It looked like a typical old project building in Crime Alley.

The two clowns went to unload the guns, and without their compatriot who had been left behind, they struggled to carry all the cases. I moved to help them without thinking, but the Joker, looking exasperated, caught me by the arm and dragged me back to his side, letting his arm slide down and pressing gloved fingertips into my hip.

With other guys, the move would be sweet, maybe a little possessive, but I had no such illusions here. It was a claim. By separating me from the clowns like this, by keeping his hands on me from the start, he was issuing a warning—I was his toy to play with until further notice. The guys would be foolish to mess with me and vice versa.

_Charming,_ I thought, and the sad part was I was only being slightly sarcastic. He was isolating me, yes, but from the way these guys looked, it also had to be some form of protection—I didn't imagine that I would be comfortable alone in a room full of them.

_Why do you over-think everything, Harley?_ I asked myself as he impatiently guided me into the building. _It gets you into such horrible situations. Like the current one, for example._

_Well… yeah, but I can't say I'm upset that I'm in the current situation._

_I mean, think about it. You're at the side of the most exhilarating, most dangerous man you know—which should be scary and horrible, but in reality is just exciting. Admittedly he just smashed your head into the side of a van, but you've had worse from just a routine gone-wrong in gymnastics._

So basically, I'd graduated from self-inflicted injuries to injuries inflicted by others. I figured that, if not an improvement, it was at least a horizontal move. Or maybe that was the concussion talking.

More stairs inside. He steered me up, up and around, his face tilted upwards, watchful and blank for once. The dizziness was returning. I tried to distract myself; hearing a commotion further downstairs, I looked to see that the two clowns were struggling with the cases. I still wanted to help them, but from the Joker's firm, almost bruising grip on my waist, I knew that it was out of the question.

I imagined the building was condemned like the first one, but there was dim light on the stairwell and I could hear muffled noises from a floor or two up. I couldn't fathom him living side-by-side with average citizens—he was too recognizable at this point. Even without the makeup, Gotham as a whole was so frightened of him that people were liable to report anyone with significant facial scarring.

So, what, then? Maybe it _was_ condemned. Maybe it had been, but someone had worked out a deal to keep it, at least temporarily, and piped in electricity and, presumably, water. Maybe this was where he stayed, a sort of headquarters. Not necessarily _the_ center of operations, though. He probably had many places, spread throughout the city.

It wasn't a comforting thought. What if he changed his mind and just decided to ditch me here? I had no way of finding him again.

I pushed the idea out of my head as we surfaced on the fourth floor and he kicked the second door on the left impatiently in lieu of knocking. There came the sound of a brief scuffle inside, and then the door flew open. A young, dark-haired guy stood there, looking petrified.

The Joker didn't give him a second glance, just steered me inside past him. My shoulder knocked into the kid's, and I muttered a quick "Sorry" as we passed.

"Harley, the boys. Boys, Harley," the Joker chanted dutifully, releasing me as soon as we passed through the door and striding past a cluster of guys to the back of the room we found ourselves in, where two more men were working at a table.

Left alone, I took the opportunity to glance around. It was a big room, almost like a loft, but extended—I spotted several doors that presumably led to separate areas. It wasn't a pretty place—the floorboards were unfinished, stained, and had holes in places, and there were gaps in the plaster where the walls were simply bare brick. There was one big window at the opposite end of the room, but it was so smeared and dirty that it was basically opaque.

I looked back at the Joker. His head was bent over the table, matted hair falling into his face, which had taken on an uncharacteristic look of seriousness. "Plotting," I muttered almost inaudibly to myself, and shut my eyes as the nausea hit me again full-force.

I turned and stumbled away. I was given a wide berth—I figured the guys had all seen the Joker's possessive grip in the seconds before he had released me, and my guess was that not a single one of them was willing to risk his mood swings by questioning my presence there. Smart boys.

I went to the first door I could find, only to open it and find a closet full of explosives. C2 and sticks of dynamite were stacked up on one side, inches away from drums of gasoline piled on the other. I looked disbelievingly over my shoulder. Nobody seemed to be the slightest bit concerned by the fact that the contents of this closet alone could blow up all of Crime Alley.

I shut the door gingerly, resolving to cast it from my mind—if I had to worry about being blown up the entire time I was with the Joker, I might as well just resign myself to nerves-induced catatonia. I imagined bombs were a normal thing to have around the house with this guy, so I might as well trust that he knew how to keep them from going off at random.

I found my way to the next door, set at the very edge of the main room, which led to a short hallway. I followed the hall to the closest open door. The second I stepped into the room, I knew I'd found the place where he stayed.

There were clothes flung everywhere—vests, shirts, pants… I thought I spotted what looked like a sexy nurse outfit. My foot crunched on something, and I looked down to see that there were matches spilled all over the floor.

I wandered in a little further. There was a twin bed haphazardly shoved into the back left corner of the room, its blankets wadded up into a lump, with no pillows visible. There was a window, but unlike the window in the main room, which looked like it was filthy because everyone was too lazy to clean it, this one looked like someone had intentionally smeared it with dirt or soot, blacking it out. The sun backlit the black glass, dimly illuminating the room, but to attempt to see out through the window would be futile.

There was a desk pushed against the back wall with a ratty-looking swivel chair in front of it, but no other furniture. The surface of the desk was almost completely invisible, covered as it was by dozens and dozens of papers and about six empty coffee mugs scattered about, stained brown in the bottoms from the dregs.

I stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of the papers, looking them over. There was a front page to an issue of the Gotham Times, but apparently it wasn't there for educational purposes. He had gone over it in red ink, scratching out numerous, messy "Ha"s over various pictures and adding words in to several different articles to change the stories completely.

That was just the start. There were several fliers for companies that seemed completely unrelated to his undertaking, such as a pie shop and a cab company. These were desecrated as well. I found a to-do list that made absolutely no sense to me—it didn't help that his handwriting was spidery and messy to the point of incomprehensibility, and often so violent that it scratched right through the paper.

I saw a brownish stain on the top corner of one of the papers, looked closer, and realized that it was blood.

_Whose_?

I set the papers down, realizing vaguely as my mouth watered that I was about to throw up. There was a door to the right, and I opened it to find a compact but functional bathroom. I darted to the toilet.

It was almost a relief when I finally vomited—I'd been fighting nausea for at least a half-hour. Maybe this would calm my stomach down. I waited till everything had come up and I was certain I was out of danger, and then flushed the toilet, pushed myself to my feet, and went to the sink.

The water ran clear, at least, and I rinsed my mouth out as thoroughly as I could. Now that I wasn't focused on not throwing up, however, I realized that I was really, really, _really_ tired. I leaned in to the small, frameless mirror hanging crookedly on the wall and checked my eyes. The pupils were the same size, which was a good sign—anything more than that would be indicative of worse trauma to the head than a mere concussion.

I stumbled back out, glancing around the room for some sign that I was being searched for. No one had made an appearance, so I dragged myself over to the bed and curled up on top of it.

_Only for a minute,_ I told myself. _I'll only let myself rest here for a minute, and then I'll get up and go out there and figure out what to do next._

_You're full of shit, Harley. You know you're just going to go to sleep and forget about everything until you wake up to him slapping you in the face._

_I know. I know, but I'm really tired. Sleep is definitely a priority right now. If I have to lie to myself to get it, then so be it._

_Are you even paying attention to yourself? You never make sense anymore._

_I know. Nice, isn't it? Good night._

* * *

It didn't take long for him to finish his business with the guys and realize that she was missing.

A quick prowl revealed that she had found his room and was curled up on his bed, out cold. He cocked his head and stared at her, several ideas and impulses racing through his head all at once. Patiently, closing the door behind him, he sorted them out.

There was a part of him that wanted to go over, bend quietly over her, smooth that hair away from her face, lean in close… and howl "_Wake up!" _in her ear. He chuckled softly as the thought hit him. It would be funny. Another part wanted to grab her up and dump her outside of his door. It was his bed, after all, and he wasn't in the habit of sharing it. Granted, he didn't use it much, but still… it was _his._

He strolled over to the bed, looking down at her as he debated with himself. Her shirt had ridden up a bit further, exposing more smooth skin. He spotted an irregularity and squinted, bending over and lightly tugging the hem a few inches higher so he could get a look.

There was a smear of color on her hip, bluish-purple. He was able to make out the finger-shaped marks and realized that his grip on her earlier had, indeed, been bruising. The sight of the mark was oddly satisfying—exciting, even. Marked territory.

_Mine._

Oh, and she _was_ his. Little Harley was the type of girl who needed to be owned, and he was a _much_ better candidate for it than that sniveling Stratford, or even the goody-two-shoes Wilson. He could actually show her some fun. He could make her dangerous, should he decide she was worth the effort.

For now, he was tolerating her. Testing her. He had no doubt that she was being as genuine as she could, that she really _did_ think she wanted to stick around, to see what he could show her. But one bad day, one _really_ bad day, could change all of that. People were fickle.

Hell, it was possible that she would run away screaming at her first sight of a dead kid. Time would test her devotion, and the Joker was a patient man.

He decided against his first two impulses. He was tired, after all, and now that he was back here, a nap sounded like a pretty good idea. He had no plans until morning, and his eyes had been burning for a long time now.

He discarded his coat and shoes and unbuttoned his vest before stepping up onto the bed. She didn't stir, not even when he stooped and squeezed into the space between her in the wall, shoving her out to the very edge, nearly off the bed.

Huh. Out cold, indeed. He'd forgotten that little girls tended to break more easily than boys. He must have hit her head harder than he'd thought.

Oh, well. She'd get used to it.

He lay on his back, feeling every spot where they were in contact acutely, white-hot even through the clothes. It was uncomfortable; not something he was used to. He considered shoving her all the way off the bed, but eventually decided against it. He was a lot of things, but a hypocrite wasn't one of them. He made a habit of expanding _other_ people's _comfort zones_, and his were no exception. With this in mind, then, he gamely worked his arm beneath her, the crook of his elbow providing a sort of makeshift pillow for her wounded head, and once he was settled he paused to take stock of himself.

The close contact felt very strange. It wasn't his habit to deal so closely with people… unless, of course, he was looming over them, imposing himself in the personal space that other people seemed to value so dearly in order to frighten, to intimidate. In those cases, the people in question were usually trying foolishly to fight him off—or at the very least, to draw back, to pull away from him. Having someone lie so taciturn and unresisting beside him was… very odd (and yeah, sure, she was unconscious, and so not in any position to even try fighting him off. Didn't make it any less strange for _him_).

He swallowed and gave a short, satisfied nod, feeling vaguely pleased with his ability to simply embrace the _weirdness _of it all. His eyes then flicked shut, and he lay like a corpse for the next few hours.

* * *

**A/N** - There are numerous instances in the comics of the Joker smoking, and it fits somewhat with my view of him. My theory is that it would please him to flirt with vices so commonly considered extremely addictive, if only to flaunt the fact that his only real vice is the pursuit of chaos. The way I see it, some days he goes through two or three packs a day, just puffing like a friggin' chimney. Then, he'll forget about them and they'll disappear for a month. Then, something will trigger him again and he'll smoke a cigarette or two, then go another month, then smoke a pack a day for a year, then stop for five years- something like that. No pattern to it, no commitment.

We've reached one of my favorite parts of the story, because as much as I enjoyed writing the asylum scenes, nothing can compare to the _fun_ of watching the Joker roam freely. It's even more fun to throw Harley into the mix, especially since she's never experienced this before. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter and those that follow, I hope you find them just as fun to read.

Oh, yeah, and reviewers are cooler than faux-Batmans tied up in your basement! (Poor Brian)... I love you guys; thanks for the support!


	16. we could crash, we could burn, burn

**Chapter Sixteen**

_We could, we could crash, we could, we could, burn burn  
We could take it, we could we could take it take it in turns  
I'm getting down with your new vocation  
Getting down with your cute cut wrists  
I'm getting down with the kisses and cross-stitches on it  
_**-The Kills, _Getting Down_**

When I regained consciousness countless hours later, it wasn't to J slapping me awake. No, it was to the steady sound of running water.

My eyes flew open, and I experienced a moment of disorientation when I realized that I didn't know where I was. It was only a moment, though—everything flew back to me quickly enough, accompanied by a giant headache.

Directly across from the bed was the bathroom door, which had been thrown open. J was there, and he was standing in front of the sink sans coat and vest, sleeves rolled up, shaving.

I had never thought about it, but of course he would have to shave. Scarred tissue with damaged hair follicles notwithstanding, he still had plenty of healthy skin on his face. Anything much beyond a five o'clock shadow would make the paint look ridiculous in a bad way. I watched, immediately fascinated.

He was shaving with a straight razor, and his hand was flicking around so fast and with such apparent recklessness that I winced involuntarily several times, convinced that he was going to slit his own throat. I underestimated his skill with sharp edges, though—he trimmed the white froth from his face and throat neatly, leaving smooth, pale skin beneath. He steered around the scars so dexterously that I wondered privately how long he'd had them, how many years he'd had to perfect the routine.

All at once, he was finished. As he toweled his face off, he rolled his eyes to the side, looking at me. "Bout _time_ you woke up," he said conversationally. "I was starting to get _worried_."

I smiled wryly, sitting up and dropping my feet off the edge of the bed. The floor was cold. "What time is it?" I mused aloud.

"Really late," he answered absent-mindedly, reaching out of my field of vision and then coming back with a small container. He dipped bare fingers into it and started smearing it on his face. White greasepaint. His hands stilled for a moment as a thought struck him. "Or really _early_," he added, and then shrugged and resumed his application of the makeup.

I blinked and rubbed the thin film of sleep out of my eyes, scratching at the corners to remove the black specks of eyeliner that had gathered overnight. I blinked again. I probably looked like shit. I certainly _felt_ like it.

"This is your room," I stated, almost as though I was requesting confirmation, but not quite—really, who _else_ would it belong to?

His fingers didn't pause. "For now," he muttered, almost as though he was answering a voice in his head.

"I'm sorry." He said nothing; his eyes flicked towards me briefly, curiously, before returning to the mirror. "I didn't mean to knock out, at least not in your room," I clarified. "I dunno, it feels like an invasion of privacy or something, and I didn't… I didn't mean to do that."

He set the white greasepaint container on the edge of the sink, finished with it, and searched for another tin. Not bothering to wipe the white off his hands, he dipped his fingertips in. They came out red, and he began smearing the new color on his lips, not paying too much attention to the lines of his mouth, swerving and sketching a red grin out over the scars.

He spoke after he was finished with the lips. "Ya gotta tear down those boundaries you've put up, Haaaarley. I mean, _really_… they're holding you _back_."

"What do you mean?"

He scraped the last bit of red paint off onto the edge of a scar and reached for the final pot of black. "Well, you're taught to put up _walls_, ya know? Now, the theory there _being_ that these, uh, these _walls?_ These _barriers_ will protect you from the _big bad wolf_ outside, at least till he _huffs_ and _puffs_ and blows 'em _down._" He was carefully applying black in an ellipse around his eyes, which he then filled in shadowing them, darkening them to complete the eerie mask.

"But _you,_" he continued, "you're gonna find out what I already _know_." He turned his head towards me and pressed his bright red lips together, raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated parody of the universal _uh_-_oh_ expression. It made me giggle softly, despite the headache, and he snickered to himself before looking back at the mirror, returning his attention to the job at hand. "These _walls_ of yours. They're not keeping the _baddies_ out; they're just locking _you_ in." He squinted at his reflection and shook his head as he set down the final tin of makeup, his mask perfected. "Break those walls down, baby," he said mockingly, "and you might find out that you _like _the wolf at your door."

I thought I understood—mostly, anyway—but I still didn't quite get what this had to do with what I'd just said. So, I asked. "Okay, but how does that relate to me apologizing for… invading your room, I guess?" I questioned as he switched off the bathroom light and came out into the bedroom. The only light now was a bluish tint that had struggled through the filthy window, presumably coming from a streetlamp outside, and it hugged him at his edges, a ghostly outline.

He crossed his arms over his middle, leaning a hip onto the edge of the desk and swinging one leg casually across the other to cross them at the ankles, resting the toe of his shoe on the floorboard. The corners of his mouth turned down in a mocking frown, though his amused eyes belied the move.

"One of these _walls_," he explained patiently, "is the assumption that other people—" He pulled a hand free to scatter it around, aimlessly indicating the room—"have a right to… pieces of _land_, of _building_, of _territory_. The truth… oh, the truth is that if you can _take_ it from 'em, it's not _theirs_. Anything you _want_ is yours, provided that you're strong enough… _smart_ enough to take it. Legal possessions?" He paused and shook his head contemptuously, dismissively. "They don't _exist_."

"So you're saying that if I can take, for instance, this room from you, then it's not yours anymore, it's mine, no matter what the law or anyone else says," I said, testing the idea out.

He grinned, though it was more of a feral baring of the teeth, a challenge, than anything else. "Sure. I wouldn't recommend _trying_, though."

"No, of course not," I murmured.

The idea wasn't really novel to me, exactly. We've all been in a store, we've all seen something we coveted, and we've all wondered if anyone would _really_ notice or care if we slipped it into a pocket. Possession _is_ nine-tenths, after all. Usually, though, the law and the stigma of being called a shoplifter is enough to keep most of us from actually attempting it.

However, it was quickly dawning on me that the law had absolutely no effect on the Joker's patterns of thinking, and that he was getting away with it very effectively. He could do anything he wanted, as long as he didn't get caught—and by all accounts, he was a hard son of a bitch to catch.

Look at him now, for instance. He'd been caught, but other than a relatively brief stint in Arkham, he was none the worse for the experience.

Presumably, this immunity to the law would spill over to me. Don't get me wrong—I didn't think I would ever be able to become as dangerous or as clever as he was. However, if I could stick with him, there had to be some kind of umbrella effect—since he was safe from punishment for his actions, and since I would seemingly be under his protection, I would be safe as well.

It made sense. I would just need to be sure that I was, indeed, under his protection—something that I was by no means certain of at this point. I mean, I was sure that he would throw me under the bus if it was me or him, but if it didn't put him danger, would he keep an eye on me, or would he step back and watch me fall for the sake of his own amusement? It could easily go either way, and so, I concluded, I couldn't rip those walls he spoke of completely down. At least, not yet.

I realized that I had been lost in thought for a full minute now, and he was surveying with me with an amused, mocking smile. I smiled ruefully in return and stretched my arms out over my head, feeling a dull pain at my hip as I did so. I looked down and saw a smudge of purple on my skin, a mark left from his hand. The thought of being marked by him was oddly arousing.

I shook off the feeling. "Coffee," I said simply, questioningly. From the mugs, I knew there must be a source nearby. He simply shrugged guilelessly, offering no help. I shook my head, got up, and left the room. There had to be coffee somewhere. I had to pee, but it could wait. My caffeine craving was more severe.

I nearly tripped over a body lying right outside the door. After the initial rush of panic, I realized that it was merely a henchman, sleeping across the threshold, like a dog. My forehead creased.

_Okay… that's a little weird._ _Then again, _I thought, shrugging it off,_ this is the Joker's place. It's probably going to get a lot weirder_. There were three or four other sleeping forms, spread out all over the main room. There were no pillows, no sleeping bags—it looked like they'd just crashed on the floor.

Three guys were clustered around the table, conversing in low voices. Their conversation halted when I made an appearance, but slowly picked up again after they apparently unanimously decided to ignore my existence. I rolled my eyes and went to the kitchen area, which was really just a series of counters and cabinets pushed against the far wall, a stove and a sink on either end, almost afterthoughts.

_Bingo._ There was a coffee machine on the counter next to the stove. I opened it up and wrinkled my nose at the discovery of a wet filter filled with cold grounds, and I promptly fished it out and looked around for a garbage can. I found one on the opposite end of the counter, though judging by the looks of the place, the floor served just as well. There was no bag, just a bunch of smelly trash shoved into the plastic bin.

I shook my head, deciding to just let it go, and dumped the filter. I then began a search for coffee.

The first cabinet I tried yielded nothing but a huge cockroach, which literally hissed at me before scurrying into an impossibly small crack in the wall. I jumped and whispered, "Ew."

Tentatively, not wanting to face another hissing roach, I opened the next cabinet over. Inside was a gun, a can of Raid (sweet irony), a wad of loose cash (no bills under fifty, at a glance at least), and a well-thumbed harlequin romance novel. I snickered to myself, because even though I was pretty sure this last was leftover from whoever had lived here last, it provided me with a lovely image of J engrossed in the toe-curling trash. I kept this thought to myself and shut the cabinet door.

Third time's the charm—in the next one over, I found a huge can of coffee, fresh by the smell of it, and some filters. I popped a filter into the machine, and then, seeing as the scoop had gone missing, shook some grounds into it.

A thought struck me, and I turned to look at the men clustered around the table. "You guys want some coffee?"

They unanimously looked up and blinked at me. None of them responded; they just gawked. "O-kay," I muttered, turning back to the machine. I measured some extra out, just in case.

The pot looked as though it hadn't been washed since its acquisition. I looked around for some dish soap, found none, and settled for rinsing it thoroughly several times, getting rid of most of the coffee stains on the glass bottom. I filled it halfway, poured the water into the machine, and pressed "on".

Now to acquire some mugs. There were numerous cups scattered around the room, about as many as were in J's room, and I stepped over several sleeping bodies to collect several of them, pretending not to pick up on the several whispers regarding "her", "she", "what the hell", and several combinations thereof coming from the talking men.

They held out until I finished rinsing the mugs, and then, as soon as I cut off the water, one asked hoarsely, "So what's your story?"

_I need to acquire some dish soap pronto_, I thought before turning around, crossing my arms and leaning back against the counter. The men were all watching me silently, though their eyes would dart furtively to the Joker's den from time to time, belying their assumed confidence. They probably weren't supposed to be talking to me.

"My story?" I repeated, one eyebrow inching up as I played innocent.

"Yeah," he said, hushed, impatient. "Why the hell are _you_ here? You're not exactly the _usual_ type."

"_Usual_ type?" I repeated, eyebrow arching higher.

"I heard you were his shrink," another one said. "That true?"

"Uh, no," I said smoothly, unfolding my arms and pressing my palms against the edge of the counter. I felt the urge to lie to these guys, and I didn't bother resisting. Maybe I was being too possessive too soon, but I didn't like the fact that they were sticking their noses in business that was, in my opinion, mine and the Joker's (and definitely none of theirs). "He actually seduced me."

All three of them got the exact same creases on their foreheads at that. It was actually kind of adorable, considering the fact that they were hardened henchmen. I anticipated their requests for clarification: "It was your normal bank robbery, typical hostage situation… you ever heard of Stockholm syndrome?"

One of them frowned. "Stockholm syndrome?" he asked sourly.

"Never mind."

The first one to speak shoved his cohort. "That's when you don't wanna leave your house, dumbass," he said, reeking with superiority.

I could feel my eyes lighting up at this little gem, but I managed to keep myself from flat-out grinning and tipping them off to the game. "Exactly. Anyway, when he grabbed me to use as a human shield, I kind of went head over heels."

More disbelieving looks. "For the _Joker_?" asked the shamed cohort incredulously.

I nodded vigorously. "Mm-hmm. Something about that makeup. It just… did it for me." I beamed at them. They were now giving me the kind of spooked looks that brand new interns gave Tiny Tony, a huge babbling schizophrenic killer at Arkham, and I was rather pleased with their reaction.

The Joker's door creaked, that sort of sound that you only get in really old buildings or haunted houses after lots of hard work—perfectly eerie, very menacing—and out he prowled. My three interrogators immediately seemed to find tabletop very very interesting, confirming my first suspicion—they _definitely_ were not supposed to be talking to me.

He gave them a long, intent look and then skulked over to me. "What's going on _here_?" he asked, his voice a little too innocuous, too syrupy. He stopped directly in front of me, leaving less than an inch of space between us, and reached past me for one of the clean coffee mugs resting on the counter behind me.

"Nothing," I said, giving him a bright, innocent smile. "Just getting to know some of the guys."

His eyes flickered to mine momentarily, and though his face was still mostly inscrutable, I thought I spotted some amusement there. He shifted a little to the side and grabbed the coffee pot, paying no heed to the fact that it was only half-finished brewing. He filled his mug as more coffee spilled onto the burner, hissing and sizzling, and then returned the pot and twisted around, leaning against the counter next to me, our arms touching through the fabric of my jacket and his sleeve. He eyed his men as he lifted the mug to his mouth, drinking the stuff black.

"That so?" he asked after swallowing.

"Uh-huh," I said enthusiastically. "I was telling them about the day we met." He raised an eyebrow, a silent request for elaboration as he belted down half of the coffee. I suppressed a cringe—the drink was fresh and probably scalding, but he didn't even wince.

I gave him a slow smile for the benefit of our audience—the men were watching out of the corners of their eyes even as they pretended not to. "Magical," I announced. "Amidst all of the confusion in that bank, you were the only thing that seemed real. And then you grabbed me just so…"

That was when I faltered, because it was starting to sound crazy even to me. A quick side glance at the henchmen revealed that their mouths were slightly open, and I thought _they cannot be buying this. _The Joker's mouth twitched upwards, then down. Almost delicately, he set his cup on the counter, and then moved like lightning.

"Like _this?_" he questioned ingenuously as his arm shot up, his hand closing around my throat, fingers tightening as he lifted me to my tiptoes, and then, as my hands gripped his wrist out of sheer panic, completely off my feet.

_Son of a bitch._ I should have known he'd take advantage of my little falsehood, and my breathing was cut off entirely as my fingers tightened hard around his wrist. I tried to push myself up and out of his grip, but it wasn't working so well. My toes stretched; I tried to touch the floor but a quick glance down revealed that I was at least an inch away.

_Stop. Fighting_, I thought to myself.

And just like that, I relaxed. Panicking, scratching at him would do no good. I just fixed my eyes on his, fighting the urge to freak out. Seconds later, he lowered me to the ground, letting go of my throat and wiping his hand on the seat of his pants as though I'd offended him. I clutched my throat throughout the first painful breath but managed to avoid coughing, and then I looked defiantly up at him, feeling an impossible smile play at the edges of my mouth.

"_Exactly,_" I said.

I couldn't read his expression at that. Maybe I had surprised him. Maybe I had just done exactly what he had expected me to do. Whatever was going through his mind, he pushed away from the counter and headed back to his room, shaking his hands out as though he'd just punched someone.

"Get ready to go, boys and girls," he chirped. "We've got a _whole_ lotta work to do." Then, he vanished into his room, leaving me to wonder _what_ work, exactly, one could do at four in the morning.

* * *

Soon enough, I found out.

I quickly fell into the background as the three henchmen ran around waking select sleepers. The noise they were making certainly roused everyone, but only the summoned arose from the floor—everyone else remained conspicuously still, as though they were dead.

The Joker emerged soon, in his greatcoat and gloves, wearing a lopsided black hat low over his face—as though the rest of his attire wasn't instantly recognizable; as though the hat would provide any sort of real disguise. He looked around at his men, about six in number altogether, and nodded shortly before heading for the door.

I hung back, unsure if I was supposed to accompany the party. Once he reached the door, the Joker apparently realized that I was missing and wheeled around, returning to me. He grabbed me by my elbow and pulled. "C'_mon_," he said impatiently. "We have work to do and you're holding _everything_ up."

"All right, all right, I'm coming!" I said, nearly losing my footing as I tried to keep up. "_Damn_."

We paraded downstairs and crowded into the van. Once inside, the Joker seemed to lose all interest in me, bouncing around and talking to the men, both individually and as a whole. I only caught snatches of it, none of which made sense to me.

"…just a party full of old ladies, nothin' scary there but _us_…"

"…get the knives up…"

"C4, just in case—"

"…_senator_—"

We drove around for what felt like hours, and probably was. We would stop and half the men would leap from the van, sometimes accompanied by the Joker, sometimes flying solo. Each time, I would look curiously at J, only to be given a brief head-shake or another negative gesture. I started to wonder what the point of my coming along on this mission was, but I didn't let it bother me much. I was just going with the flow at this point.

During one of the stops, one of the guys yelled, "Bathroom break!"

I blinked. The Joker laughed. I realized that I really needed to pee, so I moved towards the back of the van. J's eyes followed me for a few brief seconds, but he made no move to stop me. I hopped out and nearly burst into laughter when I saw that we were standing in front of a McDonalds. It had been light out for a long time by then—it was probably seven, eight o'clock already. I wasn't sure that the corporation would be thrilled to know that they were providing utilities for an underground terrorist group. I slipped inside the restaurant and hurried to the bathroom.

I was rushing. I wouldn't put it past them to ditch me if I took too long. While in the stall, I couldn't help but overhear a pair of employees hissing at each other at the sinks.

"—told you, I don't _know_," one of them said. "Something exclusive that has to do with the senator."

"But he's your _cousin._ Why couldn't he get you in? You could have totally blown off work."

"_Second _cousin. Anyway, he's a big social climber, I'm not. He goes to fund-raising breakfasts at the country club for Senator Jordan, I work at Mickey D's. Trust me, I'd rather be here than there, anyway."

I could hear a pout in the second girl's voice as they headed out: "Seriously, I don't get you—it'd be—"

I emerged from the stall and washed my hands, thinking this over. Coincidence? I didn't think so. So, we were about to stage an attack on the senator's fundraising country club breakfast.

I'd never liked Senator Jordan's politics anyway.

I exited the place and climbed back into the van. We were still waiting for some of the guys to return and there was an empty seat next to J, as usual. I slid into it and waited for him to look at me. When he did, I softly asked, "Senator Jordan?"

He didn't seem surprised that I'd sussed it out. "Well," he said, jerking his head to the side noncommittally, "Senator _Thompson's_ policies on gun control are a little more inconvenien_t_, but she's not exactly _Gotham_-based, so…" He raised his eyebrows at me and sucked his lips into his mouth for a split second before releasing them with a pop. "Any _problems_?"

I gave him my most winning smile. "I didn't vote for him."

He chuckled at that. I should have been worried, since his laughter didn't necessarily reflect amusement at what was happening on the surface—I often got the feeling that he was laughing at some private, wicked observation of his own. Maybe he was laughing because I wasn't protesting an attack on a popular, renowned senator. Maybe he was laughing at how much he'd already screwed me up. But I wasn't worried. Instead, I was elated. I was making him happy. It was a good feeling.

The leftover henchmen crowded into the car, and I was amused to see that they carried bags of McDonalds, which they offered around. Neither the Joker nor I accepted any food—him because he was apparently too badass to eat, me because I had a scared, fluttery feeling in my stomach that was repulsed by the very thought of food.

I had no desire to lie to myself about the fact that I was scared. As fully as I had decided to forsake my former life and embark on a different path, the novelty of it all was a little stressful. I wasn't sure I would be able to do it… _it_ meaning fulfilling whatever expectations he had that resulted in him bringing me along today. I strengthened my resolve as I sat next to him there in the van, taking surreal comfort in the contact with him. All it took was a look at him and a rush of feeling—I was growing more and more willing to do anything for him.

And then… we were there. As we pulled to a stop, he looked at me and produced something from inside his coat, tossing it into my lap. I looked down to find a clown mask, and then glanced up to meet his gaze.

"I don't think it's _quite _time to unveil ya in all your glory," he informed me, his tone edged with sarcasm. "Youuuu're… ah, not quite _ready_."

I didn't take it personally. I pushed my hair behind my ears, gathered it in a bunch at the back of my head, and put the mask on over it. It smelled like cigarettes and rubber on the inside, and I tried not to worry too much about who had worn it before me.

We climbed out of the van, but J wasn't done with me just yet. He reached a hand out to block me from moving forward, and I felt something solid pushing into my abdomen. I brought my hands down to grip the object and realized that he had passed me a gun. I lifted my head to stare at him through the tiny eyeholes—the view wasn't very good.

"Just in case," he purred, flashed me a quick grin, and then strode jerkily to the front of the group. We were outside of—bingo, the Beaumont Club. There was a curious lack of security. what we were doing, so I simply followed the crowd.

We rushed through the building, which looked just as a country club ought to—tasteful, ritzy, decked out with million-dollar art and stone fountains. We burst out onto the patio seconds later, where a gathering of Gotham's prettiest and wealthiest had gathered to get their pictures taken for the paper and show their support for Senator Jordan.

The Joker looked around at the new sea of horrified faces, by all accounts as surprised to see them as they were to see him. "Well, good morning, good morning," he greeted them cheerfully, circling around the wide open space they'd inadvertently made by taking two steps back, his voice a feral song. "So good to _see_ you all out here."

He stopped then and took a good look around. Everyone was frozen in fear, silent but for a few soft whimpers. The henchmen, excluding me, had taken their cues and spread out around the crowd, keeping an eye on the terrified people, probably trying to make sure no one whipped out a cell phone and tried preemptively to alert the authorities.

I was left standing just outside the doors, a silent spectator to this show the Joker was putting on—and I was growing more and more certain that he had prepared this, at least in part, for me. The argument withered under too much thought—he hadn't known that I'd show up yesterday, after all, and this appeared to be something that he'd been planning in advance—but still. There was a certain dramatic showmanship in his erratic movements that I felt sure was meant for me and only me.

"Sorry I'm _late_," he continued then, stalking almost absently towards me. Now that he had launched this attack, or whatever it was, he seemed to be incapable of holding still. This was an entirely different creature than the one I'd always dealt with; he reminded me a great cat now, always moving, twitching, unable or unwilling to stop prowling even for a second. "My, uh, my _invitation_ got lost in the mail. Luckily, an _acquaintance_ filled me in on the details and, ah, I was able to _make_ it. So. Where's the man of the hour? _Where_… is Senator Jordan?"

Nobody responded, and he sighed. "Ohh, come on, come on, come on," he cajoled. "I've already done this once before and it's getting a _liiitle_ monotonous. I _just_ want to know where the Senator is. We've got some business together." When he got no response, he swung around, his gaze sweeping the crowd, and then shook his head regretfully.

"All right," he said, and then dove into the shell-shocked crowd and dragged out a young woman. He wrestled her in front of him and produced a knife from out of nowhere, pressing it to her throat.

Watching, I felt a completely irrational pang. Not long ago, he'd held _me_ like that. It was ridiculous and unreasonable, sure, and I was pretty sure he didn't make the connection between me and that girl, but it was still there.

"So, ya _see_ now, if certain people _don't_ start stepping forward, I'm just gonna have to… well, _hack_ my way through the crowd. _Starting_ with this pretty young lady _here._" Oh, yes, it was definitely jealousy. I beat it down and watched, feeling no desire to intervene. Even _if _I thought it was worth shooting myself in the foot this early on by undermining the Joker's authority and inviting his wrath, I found myself incapable of feeling sympathy for the girl. My jealousy had taken precedence in my mind, tamping down my humanity… or, given my recent change in ideology, perhaps simply enhancing it.

He lifted the knife from her throat and pressed it to her face, digging in and sketching a thin stripe of red on her cheek. Horrified, she screamed, breaking the almost eerie silence that had held over the crowd, and everything happened at once.

A middle-aged man broke away from the crowd and charged towards the Joker, silver glinting in his hand. Everything slowed down for one single second, my stomach knotted up, and I _saw._ I saw the man going for J. I saw danger, I saw that the Joker was going to be killed if I didn't intervene. I felt the gun in my hand and I knew what I had to do.

I lifted the gun—everything seemed like it was happening in slow motion. I lined up the muzzle with the man's torso, and squeezed the trigger.

Gunfire erupted. I, having had absolutely no prior experience with guns, had expected just one shot, but as I held down the trigger, a spray of bullets was let loose—if I had taken time to look, I would have seen that I had been given a semi-automatic instead of just a regular pistol. I looked up and saw that I had indeed hit the guy, as several moist red flowers appeared on his crisp shirt and he staggered back and fell as though he had been cut down.

There was a panic—screaming, more gunfire, and general mayhem. I moved my eyes towards J and kept them fixed there. Maintaining eye contact with me, he quite casually drew the knife across the girl's throat, opening her windpipe, and then dumped her on the ground. Then, he came for me.

He threw an arm over my shoulders and basically forced me back through the doors, leading his group of henchmen back through the club and into the waiting van. He muscled me into the back, shoving me into the corner and sitting close so close that I could smell the blood on his gloves as the others joined us.

I had no delusions—he was only doing this, pulling me out of there, because _I _was incapable of doing it and at the moment he wanted to keep me around. It wasn't out of some twisted sense of protectiveness and it wasn't out of love. It was because as of this moment, he wanted me alive. He knew what he was doing, and he had taken control.

I didn't make a sound on the trip back and neither did he.

* * *

**A/N** - My little brother's thoughts on the unwashed nature of the Joker's hair: "Maybe he just likes the natural oils!"

Reviewers are better than bright green, unusually-festive-against-the-backdrop-of-a-Gotham-jail vests! I love you all and thank you for your support!


	17. cookie, i think you're tame

**Chapter Seventeen**

_Cookie, I think you're tame.  
_**-The Pixies, _Tame_**

As soon as they returned to their temporary home, Harley vanished into the Joker's room. He watched her go with impatience, though he made no move to stop her, and once she was gone, he turned to his men in exasperation.

"Ya know, I _really_ don't get broads," he grumbled, dragging out a chair and flipping it around so he could straddle it, pillowing his chin on the folded arms laid out on the back.

His men looked warily at him. Most of them were bright enough to understand that a conversation with the Joker could have many, many different results—sometimes he'd say something to make you rethink your entire life, sometimes he'd kill you, sometimes he'd _pretend_ like he was going to kill you only to turn it all into some kind of joke at the last second… he was a hard man to predict, and it didn't help that his responses always seemed to be mocking exaggerations, not to be trusted.

However, some of the men absolutely _yearned_ for his approval, and were willing to take risks if they thought there was any chance of earning it. One of these men spoke up now. "Whatchyu talkin' about, boss?"

The Joker's eyes flicked up irritably to him and then back to the tabletop. "She's been _pouting_ the whole way home," he said discontentedly. "Like someone just killed, err, her _puppy._ I haven't killed any _puppies_ lately, so…" He lifted his head and spread his hands wide, not appearing to notice the blood drying on the slick surface of the leather gloves. "What gives?"

The original speaker exchanged looks with another man, who then ventured forth to ask, "She killed the senator, yeah?"

The Joker nodded slowly. "Not _exactly_ how I planned it, but… whaddya gonna do; you gotta allow for some _improvisation. _Bottom line, the job got done."

"Well, has she ever killed anyone before?"

Slowly, watching the man like an owl might watch a rodent creeping along the ground, the Joker shook his head. "No, no. _Nooo_—little Harley, she's an _innocent_." He pronounced the word in a way that fully communicated his suspicion of the term, but his meaning was clear enough.

"Then that's it," the first man said, sounding a bit relieved. "It's her first kill. I'm surprised she didn't puke. _I_ did the first time I killed a guy. It's always a shocker, boss."

The Joker tilted his head sharply to the side, observing. "Is it, now?" he asked softly, rhetorically. The first guy nodded, failing to see that an answer was not required.

"Uh-huh. I mean, guys, we suck it up, but broads are kind of weird—they need attention, reassurance, unless they're _really_ crazy, and she doesn't strike me as all that crazy."

"Crazy," the Joker repeated.

The first guy watched him, unsure, as his boss got up from the chair and came loping over to him. The Joker took his helpful henchman's chin in his gloved hand, squeezing his face almost affectionately. "Well, _thanks_. You've been a _big_ help, ehm, Timmy."

"Tommy," the guy said.

The Joker tilted his head again. "Timmy. _Don't_ correct me."

There was a blur of movement, a white-hot pain. Tommy fell to the floor, squalling as his eyes fell on the short-bladed knife that was now lodged in his upper thigh. The Joker paid no attention, instead striding purposefully to his room and closing the door behind him.

* * *

As soon as we returned, I retreated to the Joker's room without breaking my silence. I didn't bother to turn on the lights, going straight to the corner of the left wall that wasn't occupied by the bed. Once there, I sank down, drew my knees up to my chest, hugged them, and thought hard about what I had just done.

Most people apparently threw up. I didn't need to puke; didn't feel sick—it was weird, and I questioned it. _What's wrong with me?_

It didn't help that a snarky voice in my brain chimed in with _you're just wondering that now?_

I couldn't have been sitting there any longer than ten minutes before the door was jerked open and J strode in, slamming the door shut behind him. He looked around and his eyes fell on me. He stood there in the faded light for a second, arms crossed as he stared at me, and then the corners of his mouth twisted downward and he loped over.

I flinched back—he didn't look happy; I apparently had displeased him somehow, though I had no idea what I'd done, exactly. Maybe I hadn't been meant to shoot that guy whose face was horribly familiar, that guy who I was trying hard not to realize was Senator Jordan himself.

J reached me and then stooped down swiftly, jerkily gathering me up in his arms before straightening up again. My arms instinctively closed around his neck—once again, I didn't trust him not to drop me, but I didn't struggle. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but I was beyond fighting him at this point.

He carried me to the bathroom, kicked the door wider open, and took us both inside. He dropped one arm out from beneath my legs, letting me stand on my own as he turned on the shower, though he kept one arm firmly around my back. A soon as the water came spurting out through the shower head, he reached down, picked me up again, and then, without ceremony, he ducked his head out from the circle of my arms and threw me into the bathtub beneath the running stream.

_Ow._

Falling hard about four feet into a rock-hard bathtub was not a pleasant experience. Falling underneath a freezing stream of water was even less pleasant. I lay there for a second, stunned, and the Joker took the opportunity to discard his coat and gloves, throwing them out of the cramped bathroom before closing the door and prowling back to the tub, where he stood up straight with his hands on his hips. He looked… displeased.

I understood the sentiment completely.

I struggled upright then, furiously pushing my wet hair out of my face and perching on my knees as I regained my voice. "What the _hell _is wrong with you?" I demanded. "Seriously, J, you'd better tell me _now_, because I'm _done_ wondering what your problem is!"

He cocked his head violently to the side. "What's wrong with _me_?" he repeated incredulously, his voice high, disbelieving. "I was just about to ask _you_ the same question."

I glared at him, temporarily immune to the fear I should have felt. All I could feel was deep, dark anger, erupting from a deep part of my mind and soul, anger directed _entirely_ towards him. I sat there under the stream of water and _glared_. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"Well… let's _see_," he hissed benignly, sidestepping in front of the toilet and taking a seat on the closed lid, facing me. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and he steepled his hands, pressing his fingertips together as he cocked his head back to stare malevolently back at me. "This…" He pursed his lips—"this _pouting_, this coming back here and _hiding_ after a job well done. Is this going to be a usual occurrence, or… what? Cause, honestly, Harley, I don't think things are gonna work for long if you go into a little—" He waved his hand vaguely here—"_emotional frenzy_ every time you kill somebody."

"_Emotional_ _frenzy_?" I repeated, not exactly believing my ears.

"Yeah," he answered briefly, keeping wary eyes on me.

"Is _that_ what you think this is?" I demanded loudly, bringing my hands up to grip the side of the tub so tightly that I felt the blood struggle to circulate through my hands, felt my knuckles going white.

He gave a quick, exasperated sigh and leaned forward a little more, moving his face within a foot of mine, still clear of the ice cold shower. "_Harley_. I'm _not_ exactly in the habit of… uh, _coddling_ people. Ya know? So, if it's _not_ what I think it is, then you'd better tell me _what_ it is… now."

I stared at him incredulously. For so long, he had seemed to know _everything_, even the most private thoughts in my head. For him to miss something so huge at this crucial moment was almost too much for me to believe. Still, as long as he maintained that he didn't know what I was freaking out about, I didn't see the harm in spelling it out for him. After all, he'd asked.

"I didn't feel sick," I said, my voice suddenly quiet again—my throat had clenched up and I felt like I was choking, so it was all I could do to speak. "I didn't feel sick, I didn't feel guilty when I pulled that trigger—I didn't feel _anything._ I didn't feel anything and I _still_ don't feel anything. That's not normal, J—that's not _normal_." My voice was steadily rising, past that strangling lump in my throat till I was nearly screeching.

"I didn't feel _anything_, J, I didn't feel _anything!_ It's not _normal!_ What the fuck did you _do_ to me?!"

I had a second to take in his stare, which could have been incredulous, confused, amused, or all three (your guess is as good as mine), before he rose from his seat. I struggled to my feet as he stepped into the tub, and as he ducked into the stream of water I lunged at him.

I went for his face, claws outstretched, suddenly silent as I tried to scratch off that paint, clear it all away and make him _human_, because if he was human, maybe I could be, too. If he could feel guilt, then I would be able to, and maybe I could shake off this numbness, this apathy towards humanity outside of him and myself.

He deflected the blows easily, grabbing me by the wrists and wrestling my hands down. I wasn't giving up yet—I jerked back sharply, weakening his grip, and then pushed my fists forward again, beating on his shoulders, his chest—anything that could do some sort of damage, though admittedly a chest shot wasn't nearly as satisfying as a good punch to the face would be.

I was crying and I hated myself for it. I fought back my tears, channeling the energy used for crying into feral grunts that matched my attempts to hit him. I got several good shots in before he realized that his efforts to defend himself weren't working and decided to try a new tactic. He stopped blocking abruptly, and I experienced just a second of bemusement before my face was forced into his chest, his arms locked around me and pinning my arms down as he crushed me against him.

"I _hate_ you," I shrieked, my cries muffled into his soaked shirt as I struggled to get my arms free and push myself away from him. "I _hate _you, I _hate you,_ _I hate you, I hateyou, I hateyou, Ihateyou, IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou…_"

The words of the steady mantra blurred together, faded into steady, choking sobs. Before long, I couldn't even speak—I was just crying, sobbing hard into the drenched fabric covering that thin, harshly-cut chest at my cheek. Somewhere along the way I'd managed to free my arms enough to lock them around his back, pulling him to me so tightly that it was a wonder that he could even breathe.

After a moment, I became conscious that I wasn't the only one making noise. His arms were tight around me, true, but I was certain that he had a hand wrapped in my hair, and his chin was resting on the top of my head as he quietly hissed, "Shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh…" It was quiet, almost soothing, and there was a funny rhythm to his sibilant utterances. Fascinated despite myself, I quieted down and just listened to him. Picking up on the change in my mood, realizing that I was no longer hysterical and panicked, he changed tempo, keeping his chin anchored to the top of my head, keeping his arms around me in the semi-embrace, semi-restraint:

"_Hush, _now. I wantchya to know that I'm proud of you, li'l HarleyQuinn." The words were barely audible above the sound of running water and our heavy breathing, but they were there. "I wantchya to know… not ninety-nine men outta a _hundred_ would be able to do what you did out there, and, well… I'm _surprised._ _Surprised_ and _proud._ Ya did a good job. You did what you needed to do. It was a job… well… done."

At the conclusion of this little pep talk, I wanted to feel cynical, I really did. I wanted to realize that he was saying all this to shut me up and make me easy to manage, that he didn't really mean a word of it, that he was just saying it all for his own gain. I _wanted_ to, I wanted to _so_ _badly_, but I couldn't. All I was aware of was the explosion of feeling in my chest at the praise, the sudden rush of euphoria that actually made me dizzy.

I pulled back then, just a little, leaving my arms around him, and he let me, sensing that I wasn't about to launch another attack. I tipped back my head and just looked at him. He was eyeing me patiently, looking at me as though I was a volatile but fascinating experiment whose next move even _he_ couldn't predict. I realized right away that I loved that look. I loved feeling like I was an unpredictable element in the life of the most unpredictable man in the country.

But still… I wasn't _sure_. I wasn't sure if I actually _was_ a part of his life or whether I was just another game to him, something to be broken and then thoughtlessly discarded. I still didn't _know_ whether this whole thing had been worth sacrificing everything I'd worked for, everything I'd wanted.

It was time to find out.

I released his waist, only to fit my arms snugly around his neck, tilting my head up and standing on tiptoe. I pressed the tip of my nose against his, doubtless taking some of the runny greasepaint for myself. I brought my eyes up, looking straight into his—first into the left, and then to the right.

They weren't black from this angle and this close up. No, they were a very dark brown, framed with thin lashes that were dripping black water. They still burned, so dark I couldn't even make out my own reflection in them, and he narrowed them a little, curious at this new development.

I took a breath. I'd been putting this off for way too long.

Shutting my eyes, I pushed myself up to the very tips of my toes and pressed my mouth hard against his.

For a very long moment, I got no response whatsoever from him, but I refused to let myself care. This moment was _mine,_ not ours. It was about time I took something from him; he'd been taking from me for _months_ now. One little kiss was hardly much to ask for in return for the psychological and physical battery I'd taken from him.

Then, his mouth moved under mine; his arms tightened around me and he pulled my body flush against his, lifting me almost off my feet. Encouraged, I pressed my tongue softly to the corner of his mouth, and he responded.

His lips _were_ as soft as I had imagined, his own tongue wet and serpentine, tempting and teasing. He tasted… stale, like the cigarette he'd had in the van on the way back from the senator job, and there was a deeper, fainter taste beneath that—almost like rot. I searched for the disgust and couldn't find it. It was as essentially him as his smell or his look, perfectly right in its disturbing wrongness. Instead of reviling me, the taste excited me, as everything about him did.

He was good at it, but that was hardly a surprise—he was too much of a narcissist to be incompetent at _anything_ he undertook. Testing a theory I'd been rolling around in my mind ever since the day we'd first touched one another, I drew his bottom lip into my mouth, catching softly it between my teeth.

I felt an obscene, purring sense of satisfaction as a tremor racked his tall, thin frame—I was pressed so tightly to him that I could feel the shudder as though it were my own, and a smile rose unbidden to my mouth. _Oh, he __likes__ that._

I bit down again, harder. He trembled again for a split second before tightening his arms around me and, without breaking contact, twisting around, shoving my back so hard into the wall that it nearly knocked the wind out of me. Encouraged, I kept biting harder and harder as his hands started to wander up and down, testing, exploring me almost mechanically.

I drew back when I tasted blood, startled. I hadn't meant to break his skin; I'd just gotten a little… carried away. He came away, staring me in the face, searching for something as he bent slightly down and rested his hands on the wall above my shoulders.

The steady water pressure had proved a match for even the waterproof greasepaint by now—there were still traces here and there, running in faded, vertical stripes down his face, not even close to masking the skin that was showing through everywhere now. The red of his lips had been smeared and more flesh tone showed through. The sight of his mostly-naked face was unexpectedly arousing.

"I'm—I'm sorry," I gasped, the taste of his blood still fresh in my mouth, prompting the apology. "I didn't mean—"

"Shhh," he hissed, and attacked me again.

His lip was bleeding heavily—I could taste it. Feeling the walls of his mouth close in on my tongue, I realized that I could feel the backs of the scars, ragged, a little dryer than the rest of his mouth—addictive in the inconsistency. I could see why he spent so much time running his tongue along them.

He pulled my top lip into his mouth, sucking so hard on it that I could feel it bruising, felt the exact electric second when the blood vessels broke beneath the skin. I'd never been kissed like this before, kissed so hard and so brutally that I was frightened and turned on at the same time.

My breath hitched, and hearing it, he pulled back and then pressed his body roughly against mine, drawing back again almost instantly. He reached back, peeled my hands from around his neck, and forced them against the wall, pinning them down, rendering me completely powerless.

I pushed my lower half away from the wall and against him, trying to communicate that I needed to touch him, that I didn't want to be pinned back like this. Tauntingly, teasing me, he swung back, away from me, and I whimpered against him.

He was making a point—_he_ was running this party, not me. He made this _very_ clear within the next second, when he pulled back from me entirely, and then ducked in again, kissing lightly, almost as though he was nipping, daring me to kiss back—but when I tried to respond, he jerked away again, just out of reach. He did this twice more before I caught on, and then I whined in protest.

"J, _please_," I whispered against his mouth next time he ducked in.

He didn't relent. He continued the teasing assault until I pretended to lose interest. Then he slammed into me, mouth and body, demanding a response. I obeyed, defeated, submitting my will to him. I was effectively handing over the reins, signaling _you are in control._

It was what he had been waiting for. The moment I stopped fighting, he picked me up again, his hands digging into my hips, bruising them further, and as he lifted me I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. I turned my attention to the spot below his ear, nipping teasingly against the skin. Possibly for the first time, I was grateful that I was so small, so easily carried. This way, I didn't have to stop for a moment.

He stepped haphazardly from the tub, his vision temporarily cleared as I worked my way down to his neck, pausing before I sank my teeth in, biting as hard as I could. A strangled noise escaped him, he exhaled sharply, and he stumbled out of the bathroom, carrying me with him and leaving the water running in the room behind us.

* * *

I woke up suddenly and realized three things.

First, it was night again—the blueish streetlamp was shining in through the filthy window.

Second, J, who had been at my back when I had fallen asleep, was nowhere to be found.

Third, my headache had disappeared, but I seemed to be sore everywhere else.

I groaned softly as I rolled onto my back, taking a quick inventory of my body. It had been a long time, but that wasn't the only source of my discomfort—the whole affair had been violent, in every sense of the word. There had been an undercurrent of viciousness throughout the whole process—there was nothing generous about it; whatever we'd given, we'd given so that we could take in return. It was angry, it was sadistic, it was hostile—and it was the most gratifying experience I'd ever had. Not just physical gratification, though that had certainly more than lived up to my expectations. No—so much of it had been his sheer physical closeness, the adrenaline rush that came from the understanding that _no one _got this, that the Joker only drew this close to people in order to kill or destroy, that he could _still _turn on me… and the chemical rush when I finally grasped the fact that for all his violence, for all the bruises and scrapes and wrenched joints, _killing me_ was not the thought taking precedence in his mind.

Let me tell you, _that _was better than sex. Or, in this case, an extremely effective enhancement.

After we'd exhausted ourselves—or more accurately, after _he'd_ exhausted _me_—we'd lain there, him pulling me so tight against him that I could barely breathe. When the ringing had subsided from my ears, I realized that he was whispering, crooning, singing in my ear, talking about everything and nothing all at once and putting his own distinct slant on every word. Any form of response wasn't necessary; all that was required of me was to lay there and listen, so I had. I lay there against him and listened as he dripped mercury into my ear for hours, and I eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

I realized now that I couldn't remember much of what he'd been saying, just that it was all pure venom, words that before now I would have thought were wicked and cruel—and which now made perfect sense.

I stretched and winced as I felt my various injuries protest. I could feel several large bite marks on the side of my neck, sore spots on my scalp where he'd knotted his fingers, bruises on my hips and thighs where he'd gripped too tightly, some scratch marks on my back, sore wrists and shoulders from violently twisted arms—all in addition to the bruised top lip that tingled and felt swollen. I regretted nothing. I wanted a repeat—more than one repeat, as a matter of fact. _Talk about a rush._

The events of the previous twenty-four hours had convinced me that I'd found something that proved I had a reason to stay, a reason to abandon my guns at Arkham and come instead to work for the Joker. I knew what I would be called. I knew that I would now face scorn and contempt, from J's men as well as the speculative public, once they realized what was going on—but I was willing to brave it. _In fact, let them make their assumptions. Underestimation can only work in your favor, and will only shock them more when you blow their smarmy faces to bits._

I had spent too long feeling helpless, feeling scared of the "bad people" in the world. I wanted to work to become a creature to be feared, similar to the man I was beginning to realize had become my mentor, an effective right hand but just as lethal in my own right. I wasn't sure, but I was willing to bet that J would help me, would take pride in such a transformation.

I slipped out of the bed, dragging the sheet with me, and crept over to the door, which I locked. Then I spun around and started to search for my clothes.

My pants were crumpled up at the bottom of the bed, and I shook them out, establishing that they were still damp, but dry enough. My shirt, on the other hand, which had been flung towards the opposite wall, was bundled in a soggy lump. It was a little too wet and a little too funky-smelling to wear, so I looked around for an alternative.

I found one of the Joker's shirts, a button-down that was made of the most hideous shade of yellow paisley I had ever seen in my life. _Only you, J._ Still, it was dry and smelled pretty clean, so I slipped it on and buttoned it up. I realized then that the shower was _still_ running in the bathroom.

I rolled my eyes, went in, and turned off the water. I didn't believe J would be worried about the bill—hell, I wasn't sure there would even _be_ a bill. I still wasn't clear on the utilities arrangement for this place.

I spun around, turned on the light, and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. Slowly, I gathered my hair up in a hand and twisted my head this way and that, looking at my throat.

It was carnage. There were two full-formed bite marks on either side of my neck, pink bleeding into red bleeding into dark, dark purple-brown, small indentations where his teeth had been. There were still more marks where he hadn't gotten a mouthful, just had pulled and torn and sucked. I looked like I'd been attacked by a wild animal.

Quickly, I hoisted up the hem of my shirt, looking carefully at my hips. They had gotten the same treatment, bruised thoroughly, though the purple filled out the shape of fingers rather than teeth.

I slowly lowered the shirt and then stared at myself in the mirror. I was wearing no makeup, but I thought I looked good despite that. There was a pretty flush of pink to my cheeks and no circles beneath my eyes, which popped out as blue as always. My hair was a mess, but my skin looked healthy and I looked well-rested… well-rested and _happy_.

I looked better than I had in months. _Huh. Guess this really is right for me._

* * *

**A/N** - For those of you who remember back in chapter mphmmsomethin when the Joker told Harley her first kill would be a doozy and are confused by the fact that he seems to have forgotten it now? It wasn't an accident; I just figure that the Joker juggles so many things in his mind at any given time that he can't be expected to remember things that he does not consider important.

But, yeah. Talk to me about Harley and J and this latest chapter; I'd thoroughly appreciate your opinions and observations. Love it? Hate it? Tell me. Jokermance is a really touchy subject for many people, and this is the first real emergence of it beyond sexual(ish) tension in this story. I'd be interested to know the general consensus on how you think I handled it. I don't think I need to tell you this, but reviews are cooler than harmless smoke grenades that certainly don't LOOK harmless. Love y'all!


	18. as you melt into my mind

**Chapter Eighteen**

_What gave me this power to construct you?  
Your guess is as good as mine  
If you'd like me to return you to the stones from which I brought you  
Well, you have to do your time  
But for now, put down the gun—start having fun  
Forget the sun turning and you will keep burning  
As you melt into my mind  
_**-The White Stripes, _Cash Grab Complications on the Matter_**

I didn't lurk in J's room for long. Eventually, I had to emerge, and emerge I did, pausing in the hallway to take stock of my surroundings. I frowned a little when I saw that there were even more guys gathered in the loft room than I'd ever seen—_what are they, multiplying?_—but shrugged it off, figuring that the Joker was still newly escaped and in the process of rallying his troops. I didn't see the man in question anywhere, and I wasn't exactly at my ease, considering that I was the smallest person (not to mention the only female) in a room full of big guys, and strangers, at that.

_Still, _I told myself, _you're not going to get anywhere if you cower in the corner the whole time. _I put some steel into my spine and strode into their midst, heading to the kitchen area and going straight to the coffee pot.

It was full of cold coffee, and I restrained myself from rolling my eyes. Why turn the machine off and leave the coffee to grow cold? For that matter, why make coffee that you weren't planning to drink? I dumped the pot into the sink and threw away the cold grounds, starting over, willfully pretending that I didn't notice the fact that I was the subject of about ten stares now, and neatly, as I hunted down some filters, I liberated a pair of kitchen shears from a drawer and set them on the countertop between me and the wall, just in case.

I finished setting up the machine, powered it up, and then froze when I felt the air shift behind me, felt the presence and body heat of another person standing _way _too close—and something told me it wasn't the Joker. Instead of turning around, which I instinctively sensed would put me in an even more vulnerable position, I skipped two paces, closer to the wall, and then flipped around and put a hand out to command some distance.

The guy who'd crept up on me had turned as I moved, keeping his eyes on me. I looked him over, quickly, warily, bracing my free hand on the counter beside me. I didn't recognize him and thought he might be a newcomer—he was young and very tall, with long, lank hair and piercings studded through his eyebrows and septum. This approach was completely different from the timid, almost frightened aura I'd gotten from the men yesterday—something had changed. None of the others looked at all concerned by the way he was acting. There were no furtive glances; nobody was keeping an eye out for J. I gathered that he wasn't expected back for a while.

"May I _help_ you?" I asked sharply.

"The Joker finished with you?"

"I'm sorry, _what?_"

His nose twitched in annoyance. "You deaf?"

I held back from snapping _"You dumb?" _in response—just barely—and instead looked him over again, this time unable to hide my disdain behind caution. "I think," I said, as calmly as possible considering the fact that I'd been cornered by a greasy behemoth, "you don't understand how this works."

"No," came his brilliant rejoinder, "I think _you're _the one who doesn't understand how this works."

I sighed. The temptation to tell him to go straight to hell was lessened by the facts that he outsized me, that the Joker was nowhere to be found, and that the accumulated men had no loyalty to me and no apparent reason to come to my aid (even if a few _were _frowning as they watched us). "Fine," I said, bringing up my other hand defensively as he impatiently shifted his weight and lessened the distance between us. _Stall until you come up with something._ "Why don't you tell me how _you _think it works and we can compare notes?"

He aimed a crooked, open-jawed grin at me, flashing the stud in his tongue, and I swear I tried to conceal the repulsion flashing over my face, even if I didn't strictly succeed. From the way his smile just grew, I imagined he was taking the revulsion for fear, which at least gave me a more precise idea of the sort of shithead I was dealing with.

Folding his arms over his chest, jerking his head back arrogantly (and inspiring the urge in me to wrap my fingers around his wannabe rocker goatee and just _pull_). "Everyone knows the Joker don't give a fuck about hostages; he only keeps them around for a day to be all alpha—but after that, it's fair game."

I stared at him, unsure whether I wanted to laugh or rage at just how thoroughly this kid had misread the situation. "Let me ask you something—how often does he take _hostages _out with him on jobs?"

"What?"

"Never mind," I said dismissively. He must not have been around for that. "Bottom line—I'm _not _a hostage, and I'm definitely not chattel."

He frowned. "Ch—chat—?"

"It means I'm here of my own free will, asshole, and I'm the only one who decides who gets to touch me."

The guy lifted a pierced brow. "Oh, yeah? I didn't hear the boss say anything like that." He looked over his shoulder. "How 'bout you guys?"

"Leave her alone, Stephen," said one of the others tiredly, a swarthy-skinned guy I recognized from the first day. He was undermined, however, by a few of the other guys, who were answering the question in the leering negative.

Stephen ignored him, stepping a little closer, and I resisted the urge to go for his groin, telling myself to wait, to let him swell up with imagined pride, that it would blind him in the end. "See?" he said. "No change in orders, nothing to put you off-limits."

"You're making a mistake," I warned him.

He pretended to consider that, nodding in false thoughtfulness. "You know, maybe you're telling the truth," he said, "but I think I'm willing to take the risk. Know why?" I didn't intend to dignify the question with a response, but it had apparently been rhetorical, because he continued without waiting: "Because it looks to me like you did the Joker of your own free will, and any girl who wants to sleep with _that_ freak's gotta be a pretty big _freak_ herself."

I found myself moving without having thought about it, without having made a real plan, and so I was as surprised as he was when I drove the scissors into his thigh, dangerously high up (and getting a pleasingly bloodcurdling scream for my trouble). I recovered faster, though, holding them there with one hand and grabbing that long goatee with the other, yanking on it. "Two things, real quick," I snarled, twisting the blades in his leg as he made a motion as if to strike out at me, diverting his attention to his injured leg long enough for me to say "_You _don't get to call him a freak, and _he _doesn't get to decide who I fuck."

"Bitch," he snarled, and drew back, backhanding me hard across the face, but even as my head snapped back, I leaned hard into the blades, drawing another sharp scream from him. I realized then, a little too late that everything around us had fallen unnaturally quiet, and only had time to realize what that must mean before I heard footsteps advancing on us. I didn't even have time to look up before a gloved hand covered mine, prying my fingers off of the scissors, and I fell back immediately, expecting some sort of physical reproof for having gotten into it with a henchman _already_.

The Joker, however, ignored me completely, instead jerking the blades out of the kid's leg and dragging him up to his feet. The boy was in obvious pain as the Joker rushed him backwards to the wall, but he made a credible effort to straighten up and look the boss in the eyes even as he was pinned by his throat. He was taller than the Joker by two or three inches at least, but he somehow looked smaller, childlike—a little boy playing at a big game.

"What's your _name,_ huh?" questioned the Joker, his voice falsely soothing, high-pitched and curious. The innocuous question was lent considerably more steam by the bloody scissors, which the Joker held in his free hand, tapping them gently against the guy's face.

"Uh—Stephen," gasped the guy, his hands clenched on his bleeding leg.

"O-_kay_, Stephen," chirped J, his voice chock-full of false cheerfulness. "_Here's_ the deal. _That_ li'l girl—" And he turned his head here, directing his gaze towards me for just a second before returning his gaze to the wannabe-rocker—"she's, uh, she's _mine._ Now, I'm not sure _where_ you got the idea that it'd be _all right_ to put yer hands on her, but it's _not_. Not all right _at all_.

"Ya see, I'm a _jealous_ guy. Extra-_ordinarily_ so." He raised his eyebrows tauntingly. "You might even call it… _freakish_. So…" He looked momentarily at the scissors he held as if seeing them for the first time, parted the blades, clipped them back together, then swiftly, clamped one of the kid's eyebrow rings in-between them, using them as makeshift pliers. "Don't _touch_," he said, and tore out the first piercing.

Stephen screamed and tried bending protectively double, but the Joker held him upright and said, "Don't _look,_" as he tore out the second eyebrow ring. "You know what," he added, clenching the scissors over the ring in Stephen's septum, "Don't even _think_." One last prompt jerk and Stephen was now ringless, blood dripping into his eyes and down from his nose into his mouth as he choked and sobbed.

The Joker let him drop to the floor but followed him down, folding into a crouching position and leaning in close, pasting a sincere look on his face, nodding encouragingly, eyes almost watering with the effort of keeping up the façade. "_Understand, __Stevie__?_" The kid gasped and gurgled and managed to nod. The Joker nodded in response, and sat upright, surveying his handiwork. I could practically hear his internal debate, and you could see the second he realized something was missing.

He gave a brief, '_Ah, what the hell_' sort of shrug, then dove on Stephen, clasping his jaw with a hand. He didn't have to force it open; Stephen screamed out of fear and surprise and the Joker took advantage of it, pressing into the cheeks to keep the jaw open and diving into his mouth with the scissors. I sat, legs crossed, on the floor across from the struggling pair, unable to look away, half-transfixed and half impressed when the tongue finally tore and the Joker emerged triumphantly with the barbell.

He dropped it on the floor with a clatter, wiped the scissors off on Stephen's pants, and then rose, calmly setting them on the counter. He turned to the henchmen, who were watching in horrified silence, and indicated the sad, choking heap behind him. "Get him ou_t._"

Every single one of them immediately moved to obey, but I didn't have time to marvel at this unity before he came at me. I jumped to my feet right away, but he still felt the need to wind his hand in my hair and tighten his fingers, jerking me down and dragging me towards the door.

"_Ow_—J, cut it _out,_ I'll come on my own!" I protested, but he wasn't listening. I probably should have felt humiliated, being pulled out of the room by my hair, but I wasn't. I was a little too concerned with the fact that I'd apparently pissed him off to feel embarrassed.

He drew me out of the room into the hallway outside and then flung me against the wall. I hit my head as I collided, and was working to shake the wooziness away as the Joker closed the door behind him and came over to confront me.

He planted one hand on either side of my head. A little part of me registered that there was blood on his gloves from the murder, therefore I would later be washing blood out of my hair, but I was too anxious to concern myself with little details like that the moment. "Now, _Harley,_" he crooned disappointedly. "Harley, Harley, _Harley._"

"What'd I do?" I asked softly, reaching forward and touching the edges of his coat. When he didn't jerk away, I wrapped my fingers around the edges and tugged just a little, but he didn't yield.

"Ya _disappointed_ me," he informed me. "I thought I could leave you _alone_ with the fellas. I thought you could take care of _yourself_." He pulled back, raising his eyebrows, his eyes darting up and to the left as he elaborated. "_Instead_, I hafta come _back_, save you from _one… _greasy-haired… little _alpha dog wannabe._"

I felt a dark sinking feeling at his words, but fought to defend myself despite that: "I thought I was doing just fine," I argued. "Or didn't you notice the pair of scissors embedded in his—"

He cut me off with a slap—not particularly sharp or stinging, just a call for silence. His hand came away and I felt moisture on the side of my face—Stephen's blood. "They were about to _converge_ on ya. What would you have done _then_?"

I waited to make sure that he actually expected an answer. When he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head towards me, I saw that he did, and softly I replied, "I don't know."

This seemed to satisfy him. He pulled his hands back and allowed me to tug him closer, allowed me to press myself against him. He reached down and cupped my chin in his bloody gloves, turning my face up.

"Hmm," he hummed, tilting his face down, close to mine, and a cheeky grin made its way over his face. "You've gotta _lot_ to learn, Harley," he said simply. "But _don't you_ _worry_. I'm gonna teach ya."

"Teach me?" I asked, raising my eyebrows questioningly. That could be either good or bad, depending on a lot of different factors—and of course, the most important factor was whether the Joker _wanted_ it to be good or bad.

"Uh-_huh_," he sang. "You're gonna learn to _fight_—uh, from the best of them, of course," he said, smirking as he rubbed a knuckle on his lapel. I laughed, and surprising myself (and possibly him, too) I threw my arms tightly around his neck.

"I know you're going to be an awful bastard about it," I murmured into his ear, laughing. "But I think I'm going to love it anyway."

He pulled away from me, giving me a knowing _look._ "Ohhh, we'll _see_ about that."

* * *

I was right. He _was_ an awful bastard. Sometimes I figured he just stepped out on that floor in order to have an opportunity to hurt me, to humiliate me. That didn't mean at all that I didn't love every second of it. Don't get me wrong—I got angry, I got hurt, I ended a lot of sessions by sitting in the corner with my arms around my knees, bleeding and sobbingly refusing to go on, and after he would leave me there, I always resolved twice over to do better the next day… only to get beaten down flat by him _again_.

There was an _actual_ loft in the building, not just the loft-like apartment where we were staying. This loft became our arena, and more often than not we had an audience—his men were amused by the idea of him teaching someone, teaching a _girl,_ and gathered around often to watch.

We _started_ with knife-fighting, widely considered the most difficult form of combat—and after a day or two, I agreed with whoever I'd heard that from. One of the biggest benefits to having the Joker as a teacher was that he knew his way around a blade, which meant that the cuts were often shallow and in manageable places, though he did seem to take a sadistic delight in cutting me deeply when I least expected it.

I often wondered that he had enough time to teach me, but realized soon enough that he was thinking just as much when we were fighting as he would be any other time. His plots required a lot of thinking time, a lot of planning before he could enact them. Since he could think just as well in action as in repose, this left him with a lot of free time to burn.

I was at several marked disadvantages when we fought. First and foremost, I had absolutely no experience with knives beforehand, whereas he had a _whole_ lot. It was like giving a baby a flamethrower—yeah, it's a lethal weapon, but without the talent to wield it, it probably ends up hurting more than helping.

Second, there was a whole different sort of _energy_ that surrounded him when he fought. Even though his eyes and thoughts were distant, he was still at least halfway there. His face was tense, his body was focused, and his movements were tight and precise, more measured than they ever were otherwise. This wasn't to say that he was predictable—no, he was even more of a wild card fighting than he was in actual life, which was saying quite a lot. I could never quite stop gaping at him, and so my guard suffered. I was covered in bruises and little cuts by the end of the first week, as well as a few more serious wounds.

The day after the Stephen incident, I had gone almost timidly up to J to ask if I could get some of the guys to take me to my apartment to grab my stuff before the police realized I was missing and blocked it all off. He had waved me away irritably, granting his permission before returning to… whatever it was he'd been doing to that pamphlet on tips for avoiding a mugging.

So, we'd gone back and I'd collected everything. I checked my phone when I got it. Lots of missed calls. I scoffed and dropped it in the toilet. I highly doubted I'd need it anymore. I did collect my car, however—the van was great for mass movement, but it was a little conspicuous. Nothing shouted _criminal activity _quite like a windowless van.

When we'd returned, I realized that I was officially moving in. The idea had me completely psyched—this wasn't just a fluke after all, wasn't just a game. This was real and I was really doing this. I was terrified. I was thrilled. I knew that this was what I was meant to do.

We established a pattern. I woke up alone. I made coffee. J came back from wherever he'd been, usually in quite the sadistic mood, and drank half the pot. We practiced. He usually integrated some new aspect of fighting into the practice. I got bruised and cut up. He usually ended the session by giving me a particularly bad cut and bowing over with laughter as I retreated to lick my wounds. He gathered some men and went out again, sometimes taking me, more often leaving me at home to occupy myself. He came back. We practiced again. We went to bed. Sometimes we had sex, usually we didn't. To be honest, the twisted relationship we shared wasn't based on sex or anything physical, although the benefits were nice. It was all mental. For me, it was a realization that he had shown me the truth and that I wanted to be close to him above anyone else—for him, I think, at least initially, it was knowledge that he had made me what I was, and was still shaping me. It was the only relationship of its kind I'd ever had, and I was thriving.

Sometimes, of course, J would have to prove to me that I didn't know him any more now than I had the first day I met him.

* * *

I was in the midst of one of those solitary afternoons, which I usually spent reading or bullying a henchman into helping me practice for the next day's session—a new issue of the Gotham Times showed up every other day or so, and I read those cover-to-cover. In the first days following my flight there had been stories about my _disappearance_, including my photo, some quotes from Wilson, and theories that I had been murdered by the Joker. I found these funnier than I probably should have.

I also had books from home that I was reading and re-reading daily. On this day in particular, I was sitting on the bed, leaning back against the wall and reading Norse mythology. The door burst open suddenly, and I looked up to see the Joker.

He wore a pair of reading glasses low on his nose, a spatter of blood obscuring the left lens. A long, freshly-lit cigarette hung from between his lips, and his hair looked as though he'd just tugged his hands through the tangled mess. I looked at him and burst out laughing.

He gave me one quick, irritated look—_what are __you__ laughing at_—before striding jerkily to the bathroom, flinging open the door, and grabbing my toothbrush from the counter. I shut my book and sat up sharply. "J? What the hell do you think you're doing with my toothbrush?"

He ignored me. Squirting a gob of toothpaste the size of a walnut on the brush, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and shoved the toothbrush in. I laughed disbelievingly, a little worriedly, as I ran up to his side.

"Um… yeah, you can… keep that," I said faintly as I watched him scrub his mouth out thoroughly. Dental hygiene had never seemed to be a real issue with J; he'd always seemed quite happy to let his teeth do what they would. This was definitely unprecedented.

He paid no more attention to me than he would a fly on the wall—less, actually, since I'm fairly sure any pipsqueak of a fly who dared to buzz around him would get brutally murdered, or, at the very least, have its wings torn off. I nearly went into a paroxysm just observing his "process," as he would occasionally remove the toothbrush in order to take a drag on his cigarette, apparently not worried about the toothpaste foam that was soaking the filter, would exhale sharply, and then would resume his brushing.

Finally, he set the toothbrush down. Realizing that he was making no moves to bend down to the sink, I rapidly said, "J, I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to—"

He swallowed the mouthful of toothpaste.

"…never mind," I said resignedly.

He cleaned the flecks of foam from his bottom lip and the corner of his mouth using his tongue, swallowed that as well, and then looked at me for the first time.

"_Ahh_," he said. And that was it. He turned away and left the bathroom. I couldn't help it; I laughed hysterically as I followed him. I could never predict _anything_ with him. I was still wondering where the reading glasses had come from—but, considering the blood, I found it wiser to not ask.

I emerged into the room to find that he'd produced a knife from somewhere and was eyeing the blade thoughtfully, the cigarette dangling damply from his mouth, the reading glasses pushed up onto his head, effectively holding his rowdy hair out of his eyes. I eyed him warily.

"J? You want to practice again?" I ventured softly.

He looked sharply at me, a wolf suddenly conscious of its prey. After a second, he clearly answered, "No."

"No?" I asked, uncertain.

He shook his head and used the knife tip to indicate the bed. "Lie down, Harley."

I watched him warily, but he didn't like it when I questioned him. Gingerly, I crossed the room to the bed and lay down on my back. He gave an exasperated sigh. "On your _stomach,_ silly," he said, looking down his nose at me.

I shot him a sardonic look, the unspoken words _oh, my stomach, of course—how silly of me to assume otherwise_ heavy on the air. I obeyed, though, flipping over and stretching out on my stomach.

J came over to the bed, stooping down on the floor next to me, still holding the knife. He grabbed the back of my elbow and looked me dead in the eyes. "_Harley,_" he hummed softly, "do you… _trust_ me?"

"Yes and no," I answered immediately. He cocked his head, instantly curious at the enigmatic answer. I summoned a smile, though my heart rate was starting to pick up—the knife looked particularly wicked, after all, and I had no idea what he was about to do, though I was getting a few ideas. "Yes, I trust you, because… well, I kind of _have_ to, J. You're… you're my creator, in a sense. You're bending me and shaping me into something powerful, something I've _always_ wanted to be, something that doesn't have to be afraid and _doesn't_ have to feel guilt or these other… societal restrictions, doesn't have to adhere to this _stupid_ toothless code by which the weak feel compelled to live. In essence, you're my master. Of course I trust you.

"…on the other hand, I don't trust for a second that you give a damn about my physical wellbeing. You cut me up daily for your own amusement as well as for my instruction, and I don't trust for a _second_ whatever you're about to do with that knife."

He ran his hand up my arm, curling his fingers around the loose sleeve of my t-shirt and tugging it up to my shoulder. "Smaart—" he drawled lazily, reaching out with the knife and tracing the bare skin of my arm lazily with the blade—"_girl_."

My adrenaline started pumping, my heart started racing, but I tamped down the fight-or-flight instinct, forcing myself to remain still. His eyes flicked back and forth between the blade and my face, back and forth, and his voice lowered. "_But_… you're gonna _sit_ there. Ya _know_ I'm about to cause you pain, but you're gonna _stay still_ and let me do it." He tilted his head to the side slowly, inquisitively, and the knife stopped scraping against my skin. His voice heightened in pitch again as he asked, "Why _is_ that, Harley?"

I stared at him, staying silent for as long as I could, delaying the moment. Finally, I said, voice sounding small even to my ears, "I don't know."

"_Ohhh,_ I think you _do._" He bore down on the blade, pressing it into my arm but not breaking the skin.

I nodded into the sheets. "You're right. I do."

He licked his lips and looked at me, his eyes hooded. "_And_?"

"It's because I love you." It was the first time I'd ever said the words aloud, but we had both known it for a very long time now. It was only a matter of time before it was out in the open.

"_Hmmm?_" he crooned. Just those three words weren't enough from him. He wanted more from me. My breath escaped my lungs in a nervous gust.

"And I know I said I hated you before… but… it was a lie. Truth be told, I've loved you for a long time. I'm _in_ love with you. And they'll say it's sick and twisted and wrong… but _I_ know it's not. I know that you're the only one out there, the only one I could ever be happy with. That's enough to make me stay still throughout whatever it is you're about to do."

"Hmmm," he said again, softly, turning his head upright. "Let's… _test_ that theory, shall we?"

He dug in. I closed my eyes at the sharp pain, turning all my focus towards not flinching, not moving away from the knife's point. He didn't like that. "Look at _me_," he rumbled ominously.

I obeyed, opening my eyes to gaze at his painted face. Satisfied, he returned his attention to his work.

I tried hard not to hear the soft sound of metal ripping through tight skin. He was going deep, deeper than he had in our practice sessions, this time cutting to scar. I focused on his face and blocked out the pain to the best of my ability, trying not to think about muscle damage, trying not to think about what the scars would look like. I could feel the blood welling up, trickling down my arm, dripping onto the bed—he didn't seem concerned, so I forced myself to stay calm and not worry.

He couldn't have worked for more than three minutes, but it felt like an hour. Finally, he drew back, satisfied with a job well done. He lifted the blade to his face, smelling my metallic blood, and his tongue darted out for a quick taste of it before he set the knife down. "_There_," he said lowly, emphatically. "A li'l something to _remember_ me by… if I ever decide that my work is _finished._"

Now, _that_ scared me. My hand shot out, and I was pleased to note that although the muscles protested, they didn't scream in pain—they couldn't be _that_ badly damaged, then. I grabbed the top of his arm. "J," I said clearly.

"Hmm?" he asked tranquilly, looking courteously at me.

"Do _not_ leave. If you leave me here, I'm gonna be _super_ pissed. You know that, right?"

He bared his teeth, his grin feral. "Well, _death,_ my _darlin'_ Harley, waits for _no man_," he quoted.

"Bullshit. You can make it wait for _you_." I could feel the blood, gathering faster, draining from my arm. His gaze flickered down to the injuries, and the sight of the ripped, untended flesh did something for him. He got to his feet, only to climb onto the bed, stretching his long body out on top of mine.

"Well," he drawled. "I'll… _see_ what I can do."

Later, when I cleaned up the mess of my arm and observed the clotted wounds, I would find that he had carved three diamonds onto my shoulder—a mutilation of the flesh, similar to his. I was touched by the gift.

* * *

**A/N** - You guys are better than glasses of champagne snatched recklessly from the hands of terrified ladies. Be patient with me; I do appreciate y'all and I'll show it the second I have a moment.


	19. you're the same kind of bad as me

**Chapter Nineteen**

_They told me you were no good  
I know you'll take care of all my needs  
You're the same kind of bad as me  
_**-Tom Waits, **_**Bad as Me**_

As time passed and I grew more confident in my skills, I also felt more confident about my role within the Joker's crew. I started getting to know the boys, and quickly realized that he hadn't been exaggerating when he said that most of them were batshit insane. I was sure he had plenty of perfectly sane recruits living in their own homes, on call whenever he needed them, but I rarely saw them, definitely not enough to get to know them. There were a lot of guys, though, who just didn't seem to have anywhere else to go, and these were the ones I had the time to study. Of these, _all_ of them had problems, and some were much worse than others.

Timmy and/or Tommy walked with a limp and had a dissociative identity disorder. Two personalities lived inside of the head of the beat-up kid—Tommy was the brave one, the one who would actually talk to you, while Timmy was the wounded, cowardly animal that would show up protectively when Tommy got picked on, the one who would snarl fearfully and spit poison at others until left alone. Dissociative identity disorders were extremely rare, and the therapist in me was utterly fascinated, though I managed to avoid staring most of the time.

Jake had mild obsessive-compulsive disorder that manifested largely in the way his gun was handled. He wouldn't use other guns, he was constantly cleaning and re-cleaning his, and no one else was allowed to touch it or he'd go into panicked rages.

Javier, the henchman who'd spoken out for me on the day of the Stephen incident, suffered from bipolar disorder (and was decidedly _not _open to drugs). Chaz was a paranoid schizophrenic who heard voices constantly, except for when J was around. Frank was bulimic and dealt with frequent panic attacks when we weren't out on jobs (which, ironically, was when he was at his steadiest). I believed Roger was autistic, though I couldn't really pin it down—I suspected a form of Aspergers, since he showed very little interest in anything but bombs and wouldn't talk to anyone but our charismatic leader.

At first, these men were wary of me. They were reluctant to be seen talking to me—the Joker hadn't been exaggerating when he said he was a jealous man, and if he caught a guy so much as looking at me, that guy was risking his temper, depending on his mood at the time. So, I started working on them when he was gone.

It took a while, but considering the fact that I was still "in training" and therefore rarely included in their jobs, I had time on my hands. It helped, I think, that I had somewhat reluctantly shouldered a domestic role—believe me, I was aware that this put me directly in danger of being dismissed as "the little woman," kept around to cook and make up beds and wash dishes, but after being confronted with what felt like the dozenth hissing roach in a day and seeing that these guys' idea of cooking dinner was either to opt for McDonalds or to throw a hunk of ground beef in a pot and hope for the best, I decided to clean first and tackle gender bias later. However, I _wasn't _going to do it alone.

After asking the Joker's permission (he was busy scribbling furiously on a train schedule and just grunted in response, which I took as an affirmative), I raided one of the many nooks in the apartment that contained a wad of cash and took several of the guys on a shopping excursion—J still didn't like me to leave the place on my own. I got a boatload of cleaning materials and a lot of food and brought it all back home. I bullied them into helping me carry everything upstairs, and _then _I bullied them into helping me clean. For a while, the air was thick with roach poison, lemon pledge, and relentless bitching from the guys who apparently _liked _living in six inches of filth, but when the dust cleared (quite literally)… well, it was still a condemned apartment, but at least it was _cleaner, _and at least I didn't feel like I was going to get salmonella just from stepping into the kitchen.

Inevitably, once the living conditions improved, so did the henchmen's attitudes. Several were borderline cheerful now and most of them would talk politely to me. I even got Javier to start helping me practice fighting when the Joker was gone—I had to be careful not to trigger a manic state, since he was relentlessly unfair at that point, but compared to the Joker, his mood swings were a piece of cake.

Things were coming right along with the henchmen. I got along with them; they (for the most part) got along with me (or ignored me, but that was definitely an improvement on trying to assault me whenever the boss wasn't around). However, I had to learn fairly quickly not to get attached.

I was gradually working my way through the kitchen, giving it a more thorough cleaning than the whirlwind job earlier, and I was finishing the last cabinet one day when I heard a commotion making its way down the hallway outside the door. I looked up right as the boys burst in.

The Joker was at the lead, a look of exaggerated disappointment on his face as he shook his head. The rest of the guys were behind him, all clamoring to be heard over the others. J strode a few paces in my direction before stopping and whirling around, halting the rest of the guys in their tracks.

"I've told ya once," he said, his voice treble, embellished for effect. "_Don't_ make me tell you _again_." He raised his eyebrows, smacking his lips resignedly as every single man raised his voice again—my brow furrowed in confusion as I looked from one face to another, trying to piece together the problem and failing in the face of the clamor. "Ee-nough," he called finally, after letting them go on for a minute.

A dead, eerie silence fell.

The Joker blinked slowly, parted his lips, and asked, "_Where_ is he?"

Everything was still for a moment, and then the small group shuffled around, pushing Frank to the forefront. There were tear-tracks down his face, saliva dripping down his chin. The Joker eyed him impassively.

"_Fuh-rank,_" he said lowly, turning the word somehow into a caress as he reached out with a gloved hand and patted the man on the side of the head. His voice rose in pitch, curious and innocuous as he asked, "You _know _the rules."

"I didn't know," gasped Frank, hyperventilating. "I didn't know. I swear. I swear."

The Joker stared at him, looking, for all intents and purposes, like a disappointed father whose son has just _promised_ that he has _no_ idea how the weed got into his sock drawer. He cocked his head, clicked his tongue, and then lunged forward and grabbed Frank by the collar, dragging him forward me.

"'_Scuse_ me, doll," he said as they struggled past me towards the oven. I made no reply, simply turned to watch, wide-eyed, at the unfolding events. A month ago, I would have been shrieking and struggling to stop whatever was about to happen. Now, I was just fascinated. Oh, there was a tiny feeling of horror in the pit of my stomach (I liked Frank, after all, and I didn't want to see anything bad happen to him) but living with the Joker had a desensitizing effect overall.

J dragged Frank to the oven, which he pulled open with one smooth jerk. I realized what was about to happen and should have hidden my eyes, but I was far too curious.

Almost lovingly, the Joker J fitted Frank's head between the oven door and the oven, and then slowly, methodically, started to slam the door on Frank's head, pulled the door back, and slammed it again, over… and over… and over. His movements sped up, grew in intensity, and even though Frank stopped screaming after the third or fourth slam, the Joker kept going, moving so fast that his arms practically blurred. He had started out chuckling softly, but as he went on, the laughter grew to frenzied heights, genuine howls of absolutely pure mirth, sounding over and over and over again.

Finally, it was over, and I realized that I was the only one still standing there—the other men had slipped out of the door, unable or unwilling to keep watching the gore. I realized that my adrenaline was pumping fast, and I let out a trembling breath, crossing my arms tightly to anchor myself to earth and leaning back against the counter, trying to contain my shaking.

J straightened up, letting go of Frank's collar and the door simultaneously. There were flecks of blood in his hair and on his face, and he reached up with a gloved hand to clean it off, only to realize that the glove was covered with blood as well. Rolling his eyes impatiently, he stripped away the gloves, threw them on the counter, and smoothed his hair back from his face. He then turned his attention to me.

"Uh, ya _know_," he said, licking his lips rapidly, "you _didn't_ need to stick… _around_ for that."

I focused on his face, ignoring the soggy mess that used to be Frank, and then looked straight ahead again. I heard him give a low chuckle, a menacing sound, different in pitch from the hysterical giggles that made up his normal laughter. He then stalked over to me, stepping right in front of me, his now-bare hands dropping low, inching up under my shirt to rest on my hips. I couldn't help it; I shivered involuntarily at the feel of his rough skin and looked up at him briefly.

He lowered his head, his lids dropping drowsily over his eyes as he observed me. I knew that the whole thing was a manipulation—the bedroom eyes, the skin-on-skin touching, his proximity—but I couldn't summon up the disgust I needed to in order to push him away.

"Ya _know_," he said softly, leaning in closer, a clump of his matted hair falling past his ear to frame our faces, shutting us off from the rest of the world, "you just _keep_ surprising me, Harley. Most people, they, uh, they would've _freeeeaked._ Not you."

I knew he was just flattering me. I knew he was saying it all for the purpose of keeping me under control—but I wanted so desperately to believe that he meant it that I allowed myself to think it could be true. And really, who knows? It could have been. One thing about the Joker is that you can never say for certain what he's thinking, what his intentions are. I raised my eyes to his again, unwillingly. It was just in time to catch a smile.

"I didn't think it was possible," he murmured, dropping his head a little further, his lips just barely brushing mine as he spoke. "But, ya know… you _really_ _are_ the girl for me."

And, just like that, my tension evaporated and I laughed, as he must have known I would. It was suddenly too easy to ignore the body just a couple of feet to my right as I threw my arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

He tolerated it for a few seconds before pulling back. I didn't mind; his moods were incredibly shifty and I knew that often he simply had no desire for physical contact. I suspected it made him somewhat uncomfortable, especially in just day-to-day life, but would never voice that thought aloud.

I nuzzled into his chest, hoping he'd allow me to stay for a moment, and he didn't push me away, absently patting me on the back as though lost in thought. I realized that this was a prime opportunity to ask him for a favor I'd been meaning to mention. It had been three weeks since Pam vanished, and I felt the need to do something, acknowledge it somehow.

"J?"

"Mm."

"Can I go out?"

He was still for a second, and then leaned back, away from my embrace, looking down on me inscrutably. "Out _where_?" he purred, sounding deceptively calm.

My eyes skittered evasively to the side. I immediately resolved to tread carefully; that tone didn't spell good news. "I, um, there's a project I'm sort of planning."

I should have read his silence better and should not have taken my eyes off him for a second. Maybe then I could have anticipated the hand that came for me with cobra-like speed, whipping up to lock around my jaw, forcing my head up. I followed the cue and met his eyes right away, unwilling to show any signs of defiance after what I'd just seen him do, and in them I saw a hard little glint of suspicion. He stared at me for a second, searching, then, very patiently, he said, "Project?"

I squashed a little angry voice in my head that suggested he thought I was going to the cops, that after all this time he thought I'd betray him, and instead hastened to clarify. "Pam's been missing for three weeks now. There's this forest that she really liked that they were going to tear down, and she was really upset about it…"

His eyes glazed over. I was losing him. I hastened to get to the good part: "And I was thinking about maybe blowing up some of their equipment or stealing a cement truck or, I don't know, something in honorarium. I wanted to drive out today to sort of scope it out, get some ideas."

His face changed then, just a little bit, but I thought that this new expression was somewhat better than the cold suspicion of earlier. He seemed almost amused, but I began to second-guess that assessment when he just continued to stare at me.

Finally, though, abruptly, he let go of my jaw, and I felt the ache in the bones where his fingers had been digging in, reached up and rubbed softly at the red marks that had surely formed. "Hey, doesn't matter to _me,_" he said. "Take a coupla the boys with you, though. Wouldn't want the _policccee _catchin' up with you."

"Of course not," I said, positively glowing with excitement. I popped up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek before spinning away, heading for the door.

He caught my wrist before I got away and jerked me back roughly. "Hey," he said harshly, and I looked up at him, wondering what I'd done to piss him off.

He fished in his pocket, pulled out a rusty potato peeler, frowned at it, shoved it back in, and dug out another knife—small, sheathed in black. "_Here,_" he said, pressing it into my hand. "Any of the boys looks _funny_ at you… you cut his _eyeballs_ out."

I stared blankly at him for a second, and then, when I realized that I was not in trouble and what he said registered with me, I broke out into a grin. "You are a _sweetheart,_" I told him, ignoring the slightly puzzled furrow to his brow—I guess that endearment was a new one to him—and I turned away. This time, he let me go.

* * *

I chose Javier and Chaz to go with me—Javier because I trusted him as much as I could trust any of the men who worked for the Joker, despite his condition, and Chaz because I was in no mood to cut out any eyeballs and I didn't think I needed to worry about him _looking_ _funny_ at me. They both grumbled a little, but I'd been around for a few weeks and many of the henchmen (at least the ones who lived with us) had realized by now that it was easier to just give me my way than to argue. They eventually shut up and got into the car.

I think I'd earned a certain level of respect among the men , or at least a degree of willing tolerance—I was a _girl_, after all, but I'd managed to last _this _long with the Joker. In most cases, the fact that I was female would probably just be cause for more scorn, but with J, things were a little different—he didn't really discriminate much between male and female when he was in a murderous mood. I think it impressed them that I had henceforth managed to escape a show of any real brutality.

We took my car, and I drove. I was in high spirits—this was my first real outing since I'd left Arkham to join J, and I realized as I drove that I had been feeling a bit suffocated. I kept an eye out for anyone I might know, but the city was huge and I was confident that I could stay anonymous.

It was cloudy, wet, and miserable out, and as we passed a bank sign displaying the date, I realized that Halloween was the very next day. The steady decrease in temperature hadn't escaped my notice, but I had sort of lost track of the days. I was surprised now to realize how much time had flown past.

Much like my most recent visit to those woods, this one did not go as planned.

I drove up expecting to see heavy machinery and operators blocking the entrance. I saw the trucks and equipment, but I realized as I drew closer that there were no people nearby.

I frowned as I peered through the windshield. "Javier, what day is it?"

"October thirtieth."

"That's the _date_, I mean—is it Saturday?"

"Um—no, Wednesday. Why?"

"That's what I thought," I mumbled as I pulled over. Javier looked alarmed.

"What are we doing? I thought you said this was a drive-by sort of thing, that you just wanted to check the place out."

I gestured through the windshield towards the work site. "That look like early afternoon on a Wednesday to you?"

He squinted through the windshield and then looked defensively at me. "Maybe they're taking lunch."

"All of them? At the same time? At two o'clock in the afternoon?"

"Maybe the project got shut down."

I stared for another second, then muttered, "Maybe it did." Without further ceremony, I reached for my seatbelt, and Javier's eyes followed me, widening as I unbuckled.

"What are you doing?"

I glanced at him as Chaz emitted a soft whimper from the backseat. "Going to investigate." He moved, presumably to stop me, but I darted fast out of the car before he could do anything. Once out, I ducked my head back in. "Nobody said you had to come."

"You're going to go prowl around a construction site in broad daylight?"

"Of course not," I said, giving him a playfully offended glare, and I waited for him to relax before saying, "I'm going into the woods."

"What?"

I shut the door abruptly, muffling his protests, then waved through the windshield and turned, jogging off to the barrier blocking off the road. By the time I reached it, Javier and Chaz were struggling out of the car to follow. I probably should have felt bad for giving them the catch-22 (they could accompany me into the forest of doom or risk telling J that his girl had been eaten alive by plants), but I didn't. They were just being ridiculous. I had no qualms about going into the territory—I'd done worse in the past month.

I wriggled over the barrier and approached the tree line, which was much reduced since the last time I'd been here. Still, there was a considerable amount of forest left, and it loomed high up above me, admittedly looking rather forbidding—the black trees had lost most of their leaves in the cold, and the remaining ones were a damp brown, hardly communicating welcome. Javier and Chaz, drawing closer, were cursing, but I wasn't afraid—Pam had loved this forest; that was enough to convince me I'd be all right (natural ineptitude for plants notwithstanding). Before the guys could catch up and try to talk me out of the idea, I plunged into the woods.

I heard them muttering more curses as they followed, and it struck me that perhaps this wasn't exactly a sane course of action to take. _So, what, the usual construction workers take a day off so you decide the answer must be in the forest?_ The thought amused me, and I chuckled even as I wrestled my way towards several thorny, whiplike branches that seemed determined to catch and hold my black jacket in place. In truth, I wasn't expecting to find anything. It just seemed an apt action at that very moment—the workers were gone, so, for Pam's dear, defiant sake, I would slip into the forest one last time.

Still hadn't ruled out blowing up their equipment, though.

What I didn't anticipate, though, was breaking out of the woods onto a trail Pam and I had often used to wind our way into the very heart of the woods and seeing a redheaded woman sitting on a decaying bench off to the side.

_Holy shit, it's Pam._

_No, that's stupid, it's just some other woman with red hair—_

_Shit, that is Pam._

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head hard, thinking _yep, you've finally really lost it, your delusions have given way to straight-up visual hallucinations, _but when I opened my eyes, she was still there, and she was staring at me, but she didn't speak or otherwise move. It was… eerie.

I twisted around to Javier, who had just managed to fight his way out from the trees. "Um, hey, Jav—there's a woman sitting on that bench, right?"

He glanced over and started back a step, which was all the answer I needed. I nodded. "Red hair? Sexy?" I asked.

"Um…"

I turned around. Pam had risen, suddenly on her guard at Javier's arrival, and Chaz stumbling out from the woods whimpering a second later didn't seem to help anything. I put a hand behind me, gesturing for them to stay, and then took a few steps forward, towards her.

"Pam?"

She stared at me, but couldn't seem to stop glancing at the two men behind me. "Red," I said gently, trying to control my suddenly-racing heart, "is that really you?"

"Harley," Javier said warningly.

"Shh, I know what I'm doing," I said impatiently.

"Harley."

It was Pam that had spoken, and I found myself almost tearful at the sound of her voice. It had been _far_ too long; far too much had transpired since our parting at the airport—for her as well as me, I was sure—but the normalcy of that voice, the confidence with which she spoke my name… it almost killed me.

"Yeah," I said softly. There was silence as we regarded one another, both with a certain amount of wonder. She looked… older, somehow. Not aged or craggy, just… there was a palpable difference in her face, evidence of some great change. I noticed, too, that her skin looked strange. Pam exemplified the wry saying "I don't tan, I burn" and her skin had always been rosy pale, totally typical for people with hair of her color, but now it looked… olive-toned, which gave her appearance a sort of etherealness that it never had before.

"Pam," I said, aware that the silence was stretching too far, worries multiplying in my mind as I realized how strange this whole thing was, "where have you been?"

"Who are they?" she asked sharply, jerking her chin at my escort. I turned my head to see that the guys were both looking borderline hostile—Javier's fists were clenched and Chaz was rubbing his nose furiously.

"Guys, settle down," I told them, turning again back to Pam. "They're with me. It's okay."

"I don't know them."

I stared at her, the therapist's mind making several quick analyses that all pointed to trauma. After a second, without taking my eyes off of her, I said, "Guys, can you give us a second?"

"Absolutely not," Javier said adamantly.

Pam's stare sharpened into a glare, and I whirled around quickly, but Javier was already talking again. "You think we're going to waltz off into fucking Grimm's Fairy Tales and leave you here to get killed and eaten by this crazy lady? The Joker would fry us alive."

"This _crazy lady_ just so happens to be my best friend—" I began.

"So it's true?" Pam interrupted, and I couldn't help but wryly note that she sounded more like herself than ever.

"—and there is no way she would ever hurt me," I continued.

"I'm sorry, but the _Joker_?"

"I've known her a lot longer than I've known you guys, and while, believe me, I know you have incentive to make sure I'm okay, hers is better."

"What, better than the fear of being fed your own intestines?" Javier asked sarcastically.

I heard footsteps crunching through the dead leaves behind me, saw Javier tense and take a quick step forward, and then Pam grabbed my elbow and turned me to face her. "Tell me you're not bullying Joker henchmen, because I'm not sure I can deal with the implications of what's going on if you are," she said flatly in the familiar big sister tone I loved to hate.

It was the bossy tone that did it. I twisted in her grasp and threw my arms around her. "I _knew_ it was you," I crooned into her ear as she slowly hugged me back—she was obviously uncomfortable, but again, trauma. Baby steps. Anyway, I was no stranger to non-reciprocated embraces of late.

When I finally came away, I found that my cheeks were wet in the frigid air. Momentarily dismissing Javier and Chaz—I doubted they were going to cooperate with me, anyway—I looked her earnestly in the eyes and said, "I talked to the police. They said you were dead. They said—they said Woodrue killed you."

Her eyes, which had softened just a little as a result of the hug, hardened to flint again. "Woodrue," she said, very clearly, "_tried_."

I stared at her for a second, and then took her hands, glancing sharply over my shoulder at the guys before leading her to the bench and sitting with her. "Tell me," I said.

She did. She told me of the mounting tensions on the trip, her boss's erratic behavior, culminating in a romantic overture she rejected with her usual straightforwardness. She told me of the attack in her hotel room, how he had dealt her a blow to the head and how she had awoken in the desert later with no idea where she was or what had happened. After wandering around for a time, confused from the head trauma and blood loss, she sorted herself out enough to return to the city.

From there, she went to the lab. Her keys were still in her pocket, and she imagined she didn't run into police because they'd already searched the place for her or Dr. Woodrue and found nothing. She went in, curled up in the chair next to her research table, and went to sleep.

"When I woke up," she said, "I felt fine. Better than fine. Good enough to realize that the lab wasn't safe anymore, at least, so I went straight to the police station. I got held up in Egypt for about a week dealing with all kinds of red tape, and when I finally got back, Gotham was so loud that I had to come out here, where, lo and behold…" Her voice dropped a little bit, sending a chill down my spine, and I remembered that I still didn't know why the workers outside of the woods were missing.

Before I could ask, though, she went on. "I mean, imagine it. I got home to find out that Woodrue's still missing—as was, might I add, my best friend, whose coworkers seemed convinced was abducted by the Joker despite the fact that the police seem relatively convinced she was in fact _murdered _by the Joker, that they just hadn't searched the right dumpster in the Narrows yet. I also found out that the common factor in both those theories, by the way, happened to have escaped from the _insane asylum _while I was gone."

"Um," I said. "_Abducted_ is a strong word. So is _insane._"

She stared at me, shook her head, and said, "I'm never leaving Gotham again."

"Oh, come on," I said with a touch of exasperation. "It's not that bad."

"Not that _bad_?" she demanded, eyes flashing, and pointed sharply at me. "Harley, _look _at you!"

Oops. I'd forgotten about the evidence of bite marks on my neck, the bruises forming on my jaw and the little cuts on my face and throat from our knife fights, but as soon as she pointed them out, I felt them again, aching almost pleasantly in the cold air. I breathed a silent prayer of thanks that I was wearing a jacket that covered up my mutilated arm and that my clothes covered any number of cuts and bruises from the sparring sessions.

"It's not what it looks like."

Her lip hitched in a snarl. "You fell down the stairs?"

I stared at her, brows shooting down thunderously. _She wants to be judgy, fine. _I gestured at my face, my clear eyes and straight nose. "You see any black eyes, Red? Any split lips or missing teeth? He doesn't beat me up."

"So those marks appeared out of nowhere, then," she remarked sarcastically.

I looked intently at her, unblinking, and pushed my hair back from my neck, making the shape of the bruises a bit more evident. "You want _details_ about these marks, sweetie?"

She looked stunned for a second, but comprehension swiftly dawned in her eyes and she gave a little huff, looking away from me into the woods. After a second of brooding silence wherein I steadily watched her and she steadily watched the trees, she said abruptly, "You know, I've had girlfriends that dated assholes before, but I think you win the award this time, dear."

I shook my head sulkily, finally glancing away from her. "You don't even _know_ him."

"Oh, so I should get to know the psychopathic murdering _terrorist_ before placing judgment on him? How very politically correct of you."

"It's done," I said sharply, vaguely disturbed by the poison in her tone, which I'd never heard before—at least, not directed at me. She shot me a glance, and, clearly picking up on my discomfort, softened.

"I… I just don't understand," she said, shoulders relaxing minutely as she released a long sigh. "I leave and everything's normal. I come back… and it's all gone to hell. What _happened?_"

I touched her hand gently. "It's always been like this, Red," I said softly. "You know that as well as I do. We just… we had constructs that helped us cope, but those have been taken away. You think I don't see that you've been traumatized?" She shot me a swift look and I offered her a small, inoffensive smile. "You can take the shrink out of the asylum," I quipped, trying to make light of it. She didn't smile.

"Seriously, Pam," I said, letting the smile drop. "You're flinching from the touch, you haven't quit glancing and glaring at the guys since we got here, and you're in the middle of a condemned forest in late October instead of at home trying to readjust to normalcy. Are you _really _sure that whatever happened to you over there is any less serious than what happened to _me_?"

She glanced at the guys again, brows knitting together in a sort of frustrated bemusement, and suddenly, she leaned in close, her hair brushing my face as she hissed into my ear. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she confessed, all in a rush. "I'm the same person but it's all so _different. _Everything's _different, _it's like it's all rotted in a month, but it's the same and… I just don't know what to do."

I put my hands on her shoulders, and she leaned back a little to look at me, looking severely disturbed. "It's like I said," I told her clearly. "It's _always _been that way. We just had to get knocked in the head to _see _that. Literally _and_ figuratively," I teased, but her frown just deepened.

"I have no idea how to cope with it all," she confessed, voice low.

The starkness of the reversal was not lost on me. Pam had always been the counselor, the voice of reason, but here she was, sounding more lost than I'd ever heard her—and for once, I felt equipped to help.

I reached forward, pulling her into my arms and hugging her as tightly as I could. "It's okay," I murmured. "I'll help you get through this. I promise."

* * *

**A/N** - I couldn't kill Pam. Come on; her alliance with Harley is one of the strongest alliances (and best instances of grrl power) ever to exist in the comic book world. Plus, Pam offers a whole new dynamic to the Joker/Harley relationship. Now, Harley has somewhere to go after a more chaotic fight, sometime to tell her "You're being an idiot", someone to offer a glimmer of sanity (although quite clearly Pam isn't entirely sane, herself). I couldn't sacrifice that. Now, I'm off to indulge in my exciting new idea for a fictional book that's been keeping me so tied up. Thank you for being so patient with me! Reviewers are better than blonde-green hair dye!


	20. gonna have to step over my dead body

**Chapter Twenty**

_You're gonna have to step over my dead body  
Before you walk out that door  
You charmed me with your magic, landed looking tragic  
"Forever" is the feather you ain't got no more  
_**-The Kills, **_**No Wow**_

I should have known better than to make that promise. I'd forgotten, for a moment, how completely my life had changed—sitting there with Pam, despite the decidedly abnormal surroundings, it was as if the last month had all been a dream, that she was still the only one in need of my substantial loyalty.

Javier's phone buzzed, and as Pam pulled away, I heard him mumbling an answer. She gave him another wary glance, clearly still extremely uncomfortable with the presence of the Joker's men (and frankly, I couldn't blame her—she didn't know them like I did). "By the way, Harley," she said, shifting her gaze to me, her eyes scanning my face and throat, "rough sex is all well and good, but you might want to rethink it when you're doing it with someone who might _actually kill you_ in the middle."

In the old days I might have blushed and scolded, but now I just felt the terrible urge to laugh. I cleared my throat to disguise it, scratching at an eyebrow. "I will... keep that in mind."

"And what are these?" she demanded, indicating the shallow cuts puncturing my skin here and there.

"Knife fighting," I said. Her eyebrows shot up.

"Oh. You're knife fighting now. That's—that's great."

"Harley."

I turned at the sound of my name to look inquisitively at Javier, who was tucking his phone into his pocket. Chaz had slumped to the ground and was sitting morosely like a kicked dog, and I felt a slight pang. I'd need to remember to get pizza later on this week to make up for this whole experience; it was his favorite. "He wants us back," Javier said simply, gaze shifting uneasily between me and Pam. I felt her stiffen up behind me.

"What, he whistles and you come?" she muttered.

I snapped my head around, flashing her a dangerous grin. I loved her, but this mutinous sass was going to get old fast. "Wouldn't that be nice," I snarked, standing up. She followed, grabbing my arm.

"I don't want you to go."

I sighed, feeling torn for the first time since I'd left my home to go find him— but then, of course, Pam had not been in the picture. I wanted to make good on my promise, but I knew I'd need to explain the situation to the Joker first, to make sure he understood exactly what was going on and that my loyalties still lay firmly with him before taking off for a few hours or days to be there for my best friend.

"Believe me," I said softly, "this is the smartest thing to do. I need to go see him right now, but I'm going to come back and we'll work through this."

I spotted a flash of real fear in her eyes before her gaze hardened and she lifted her chin. "Fine."

"Don't pout," I chided her. "I promise. As soon as I can."

"Yeah, whenever _that'll_ be," she said, not exactly relinquishing her sullenness. I tried very hard not to roll my eyes.

"Can we give you a ride back to your apartment?"

She scowled. "With them? Please. I've got my phone; I'll make my own way home."

I stared at her, jaw tense, knowing that she was being stubborn and that it could endanger her, but hell, I was one to talk. Finally, I nodded. "Fine. I'll roll around to your place soon. Um—goes without saying that you shouldn't tell anyone you saw me?"

Her eyelids twitched, and my tone intensified, razor-sharp. "Pamela."

"I won't. Not now, anyway," she said grudgingly. "I want an explanation."

"Good. They wouldn't find me anyway, it would just be annoying," I said, turning away. Javier was shifting his weight from one foot to another impatiently, and I summoned a smile for him, going to pull Chaz to his feet. "Come on, guys, let's go."

As we ducked back into the trees, I glanced over my shoulder. Pam was sitting on the bench, not looking at us, arms wrapped around herself. I felt a sharp pang of worry, but I stuffed it back down.

_I'll help her soon, _I promised myself, and passed through the tree line.

I tried to understand why I was troubled on the drive home. My spirits should have been sky high—my best friend was not dead. She was, in fact, very alive, and, from the looks of it, on a path similar to my own, which meant that we could more than likely _continue _to be friends.

I realized as we passed over the bridge that the source of my concern was, essentially, the phone call from the Joker summoning us home again. It was as if he had a sixth sense alerting him to the fact that I'd shown interest in something other than him, and though I knew this was complete bullshit, it still lodged under my skin, an itch that wouldn't go away. It worried me, and for the first time, I found myself wondering what I would do if he said _no, out of the question, I don't want you ever seeing her again. _Giving up the Joker for Pam was clearly not something I was willing to do, but… I didn't think I could give Pam up for the Joker, either, not when she so clearly needed me.

When we got back to our building, J was gone, running some mischievous errand somewhere, no doubt, which frustrated me a little—why call us home if he wasn't even going to _be _there when we got back?

Aside from the senator fiasco, he hadn't shown himself in public. These missions of his were all prep. He was planning something huge, I figured, and I wouldn't at all be surprised if he chose Halloween day to mark his official return to the Gotham nightlife. Javier and Chaz skulked away almost immediately, probably hoping to disassociate themselves with me immediately. I'd annoyed them both with the woods stunt, Javier especially, but I wasn't worried. I'd win them back.

I went to J's room and picked up a book. I couldn't focus on it, though. My mind was still humming with its new knowledge and I couldn't stop _thinking._

The way she'd said Woodrue's name convinced me that she was planning something unpleasant for him if she ever saw him again. Pam had never been one to go strictly by the letter of the law—she generally obeyed it just because it was easy, but she definitely didn't regard it as god, and I'd seen her flaunt it if it got in her way, much more so than I had pre-J. It made me wonder exactly what she was planning to do now that she was back. If she'd had a similar epiphany to mine—_people are horrible, you've got to be willing to climb over them if you want to make a real difference in your own life or others'—_then I wondered if she'd be willing to take it to the same heights I had.

Dammit, I wanted to spar now. I had a whole lot of coiled energy that needed expulsion—but I highly doubted Javier would be up to it after the morning's events. Shame. Recently, much to J's enthusiasm, I'd finally acted on something I'd thought about doing for some time, incorporating my gymnastics training into my expanding fighting technique—I'd had some more ideas last night and wanted to test them out.

Still, with Javier sulking and my mind in a frenzy, there was nothing for me to do but wait for J to return so I could explain the change in situation to him. So, I curled up on the bed and pretended to read my book until he returned home.

He entered the room in perfect silence. If I hadn't been keeping an eye on the door, I never would have noticed. I sat up straight. "J," I said. He glanced up at me. I could tell from his eyes that his mind was somewhere completely different, and I frowned. "Are you all right?"

He stared blankly at me, and aside from licking his lips, he gave me no response. This wasn't a good sign, but I knew better than to pry. Instead, softly, I said, "Pam's alive."

He blinked at me. "Whaat, the _dead_ girl?" he drawled.

"Yeah, except she's not dead. I found her in the woods. The idiot who tried to kill her screwed it up, and she's back—and if I'm right, she's looking for revenge. I don't know, we didn't have much time to get into it; the boys were breathing down my neck and made me come back home."

"_Made_ you… come back home," he repeated, a distinct mocking edge to his tone. My forehead creased. _Definitely not good._

"Are you okay?" I asked again.

He smacked his lips and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms and surveying me from hooded eyes. "_Wonderful_."

I got up from the bed. "No, you're not," I said resolutely. "What happened?"

"So," he sang, ignoring my question, examining his fingernails as though he'd never seen anything more fascinating than the dirt beneath them, "the prodigal _daughter's_ back, huh?"

"Yes," I said warily. J's mood could go either way at this point; he could erupt into a temper for who-knew-what reason or he could go manic on me, laughing at some effect that this new development would have on some plan for some particular person. I wasn't sure. "Is that bad?"

"Now eeee-ve-rything can go back to _normal,_ can't it, _Harley?_" His eyes shot up, defiant, challenging me to contradict him as he pushed away from the wall and stalked towards me purposefully. "The _plant-girl_'s back. Everything… _falls_ into place, doesn't it?" He circled me, and I twisted around in order to follow him with my eyes, not trusting him to be at my back at that immediate moment.

"J, what are you talking about?" I demanded flatly. I'd been almost subconsciously preparing myself for the possibility of a fight ever since he called us home, so my defensive reflexes were sharp.

He continued to circle me, and I stopped spinning to keep up with him, determined not to humor him, to let him disorient me. "Well," he chanted, "dontchya think it'sss… _time_ to go home?" He paused behind me. I felt him stepping close, and his next words were hissed into my ear. "You c'n _forget_ that this ever happened. Start over. Be a… _good_ little girl."

_Well, I guess that answers my question about whether he's okay with me spending a couple of days with her. _I whipped around; he leaned back just in time to avoid getting thwacked by my ponytail. "You're utterly _insane_," I said harshly.

He cocked his head, raising his eyebrows as though wounded. "I thought we'd been _over_ the _labels,_ Harley."

"Not when they're so _perfect_," I snapped. "You think for one second that this meant _nothing_? You think I'm just going to drop you cold because Pam's back?"

He tilted his head a little more, giving this question due consideration, and then licked his lips rapidly and answered, "Well… _yeah._"

"Then, like I said, you're insane," I said coldly, and turned away from him. I wasn't sure where I was going to go—I just wanted to get away from him for a few minutes, give him time to think twice about the assumptions he was making and give _me _time to cool off.

The Joker had other ideas.

I heard the floorboard creak alarmingly under his weight, and before I could twist around, he clapped his hand around my battered neck and flung me towards the desk, growling as he did so: "Nono_no,_ do _not_ turn your _back_ on me!"

I slammed into the desk, feeling my thigh bruise instantly upon contact. I tried to push away, but he was already there, one hand on either side of the desk behind me, leaning forward, forcing me to move instinctively backwards to get some distance from him. His eyes were half-rolled into the back of his head, his yellow teeth were bared in a fearsome, predatory grimace, and the sudden fear was almost intoxicating in its potency. As my heart jumped, I realized that I'd allowed myself to be lulled into a false sense of security. On the heels of this realization came another: that thinking that I was _safe _on _any _level from this man might just have been the greatest mistake of my life.

"Ya know what _you_ are, Harley?" he crooned, snapping out of that horrible, harsh voice of his and returning to the usual high-pitched, sing-song voice that was the norm when he was with me. He was breathing heavily, though, excited, which boded ill. Whatever he was about to say wouldn't be good, and I could feel my pulse throbbing in my throat with the ferocity of my fear.

He didn't wait for me to ask. "You're a _sheep._ Any stronger person comes along—hey! Look at me!"

I'd dropped my eyes, unwilling for him to see the sudden, stupid tears that had surfaced in my eyes. I shook my head, forcing out a strangled "_No!_", but it was no use—his right hand came up, gripped my hair, and jerked my head back, angling it up towards him.

He saw the tears, and the corner of his mouth jerked down in mocking concern. "Truth _hurts,_ Harley? Oh, don't be sad. I'm _helping_. Now, _as_ I was saying…" His eyes wandered off momentarily as he searched in his memory, and, a second later, snapped back to mine, which were blurring more every second. "Any _stronger_ person comes along… and ya _latch_ onto them. Ya know, you just gotta be _led_. It, uh, it gives your life _meaning_. You think you can accomplish something by being _there_ for that _person_ you've sunk your li'l _teeth_ into." Almost absently, his thumb stroked a bite mark on the side of my neck, the touch a little too abrasive and painful to be tender.

"You… are _wrong,_" I said in a whisper, struggling to keep my voice under control, keep it from breaking and embarrassing me further.

"I'm wrong? I'm _wrong?_" he demanded, his voice rising in hilarity and eventually breaking as he let loose a long cackle of laughter, _hee-hee_ing right in my face. Gasping for breath, he demanded in a strained, deeper tone, "What makes you think I'm _wrong,_ Doc?"

He hadn't called me that since our sessions. It was enough to make the tears finally spill over. Raising my voice, not caring that it broke several times, I said harshly, "_I don't need you_, _Joker._"

"Ohhh, but you _do_," he said, his voice suddenly dropping into a primal growl as he pressed a bony hip painfully into me, reminding me just how much of myself I'd given to him. "You _do._ But… you'll _never_ have it all, and that just drives you craaaazy, doesn't it?!"

My voice rose into a broken scream: "I _don't_ need you, J, and I wouldn't care if you _died!_"

Harsh words, words that I didn't mean, but he had hurt me more in this last five minutes than he had in our whole acquaintance, and the fear was so sharp and toxic that I couldn't _think_. Instinct prevailed, and mine said that I wanted to hurt him back—more importantly, I wanted to prove that I _could._

The statement didn't exactly have the desired effect. He simply whooped with laughter at my assertion. "Don't hold back, Harley!" he struggled to say. "Tell me how you _really_ feel!"

I had run out of words at that point. So, I elbowed his left arm away from me, and then drew back and socked him solidly in the face with my right fist.

He laughed again, but there was an angry edge to his amusement now, and before I could break away from him, he dug his hands into my ribcage and lifted me from the floor, swinging me around and letting my momentum carry us both straight into the bathroom door. It had been shut, but under our combined weight, the already-shitty lock broke and we fell into the room. I hit my head on the sink on the way down.

I was too dizzy to fight back, aside from taking a few feeble, ineffective swings at him as he leaped to his feet and seized me by the hair, dragging me upright. He flung me into the wall between the sink and the shower, using so much force that I could feel the plaster crumbling behind my aching shoulders. Viciously, he backhanded me, and as my head snapped to the side from the force, I tasted blood.

I swung out at him and nailed him in the chin with a clumsy uppercut. He let out a muffled "Mmmph!" of surprise, but undeterred, he drove a hard fist into my stomach, winding me completely. As I gasped for air, he grabbed my chin, twisted my head to the side, and drew his slick tongue up my burning cheek, collecting my tears. I felt a twitch in my lower belly, an excited spark even though the move was clearly a demonstration of dominance on his part rather than an expression of lust (_what's the difference? _whispered a twisted little part in my mind), and though I acknowledged this sick craving for him, I simultaneously felt vaguely repulsed, both by myself and by him.

The internal tumult galvanized me into vicious motion. Pulling in a difficult breath, I jerked my knee up, aiming clumsily. Feeling me shift, he blocked it off with his own knee, but his temporary distraction allowed me to give him yet another uppercut in the exact same place.

This seemed to irritate him. He drew back and aimed a fist at my face. Luckily, I'd been practicing with him, was starting to learn how to read him, and the adrenaline was speeding my reflexes, so I saw the way his elbow cocked back and I ducked away just in time. His knuckles broke through the plaster where my head had been, his hand getting stuck up to the wrist inside of the wall. He grimaced and pressed against the wall with his other arm, trying to pull his fist out. I took advantage of his distraction, grabbing a cup that was resting on the sink and breaking it over his head before darting out of the bathroom.

He freed himself and caught me before I was halfway to the bedroom door, grabbing me by the arm and forcefully flinging me to the ground. I still hadn't gotten my wind back after the punch to the gut, and my impact with the floor simply did more damage to my diaphragm, but the fall was nothing compared to what happened next.

The Joker jerked his foot back and kicked me hard in the side, causing me to crumple and coil around the wounded area protectively. He drew back again, and only my sense of self-preservation allowed me to reach up and blindly grab his ankle as it ripped through the air, pulling on it as violently as I could manage.

He lost his balance and fell hard on his back, hitting his head on the floor. Before he had even hit the ground I was struggling to my feet, gasping for air, in terrible pain—I was afraid my ribs were bruised, which would inhibit the hell out of me. I had to get out of there.

My hand was on the doorknob when he started laughing, and, despite myself, I turned to look at him. He was curled up on his side, lips drawn back from his teeth in hysterical laughter, blood trickling down from his hairline where the cup had broken and eyes screwed tightly shut—for a second, and then they flew open to smolder at me. "Oh, _oh, oh, _off she goes!" he gasped. "It's no use, _Haaaarley_; you'll always need _someone. _You _can't _exist on your own!"

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch," I snarled. "I _hate_ you."

He lost it at that, rolling onto his back and laughing until he was absolutely weak. My lip curled in disgust, I twisted the knob clumsily, threw the door open, and stumbled out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me.

I was halfway out when his voice rose in one final, horrific screech of laughter: "_You'll be back!_" he howled from the room, as clearly as if he standing right beside me. I burst into tears once more and stumbled out of the apartment, desperate to get away, to get away from the unabashed stares of curious henchmen and to get away from _him._

* * *

I stumbled my way to my car and peeled out of the complex, but once on the road, I was at a loss. Where could I go?

A little voice in my mind piped up, saying that this would be a great time to go see Pam as promised, but I rejected the idea immediately. Fleeing from partner to best friend felt uncomfortably like proving him right, and while I worried briefly about the transparency of going out of my way to prove him _wrong, _it was also a fact that I didn't exactly want to show her my brand new set of injuries. She'd never been gentle with _I told you so_s.

My breath was coming short and my ribs ached, the pain conjuring images of the hospital, but the temptation was fleeting. A trip to the ER was about as likely as me taking a trip to go see Wilson. I was in a lot of pain all over, but I wasn't coughing up blood and I highly doubted any of the injuries were fatal.

In the end, I decided to go back to my apartment. I had a spare key in my car and I was paid up on rent and utilities for the month of October, anyway. From what Pam said, my disappearance had hardly gone unnoticed, but with any luck my apartment wasn't a hotspot anymore and I would be able to crash there for a few nights till I figured out what to do.

True to my suspicions, big lengths of yellow tape were stretched across my door—CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS. I rolled my eyes, ripped them away, and unlocked the door.

"Shit," I muttered. Half of my stuff was gone. I hated crooked cops. Anything of relative value—the TV, the microwave, even the ancient VCR—had been stolen. "That's what you get in Gotham," I muttered to myself.

Rather than brood over my lost possessions, which didn't really concern me these days anyway, I went into the bathroom, switched on the light, discarded my shirt, and looked myself over, taking inventory of my current injuries.

There were several marks and half-healed scratches from earlier, but they were literally pale in comparison to my fresh wounds. There were smudges of brown from where he'd grabbed my sides to throw me into the bathroom, and the skin covering my ribcage was bright red, angry from the vicious kick. My lip was split and bleeding and the right side of my face was mottled pink. There was a fist-shaped smear of purple on my abdomen.

Come to think of it, the back of my head felt unusually warm. I put a hand up to the area where my head had collided with the edge of the sink, and my palm came away moist, sticky, and red.

"_Dammit,_" I snarled. Another head injury, though I wasn't feeling nauseous or disoriented. I quickly ran through the symptoms of a concussion and affirmed that I wasn't experiencing any of them. It probably looked and felt worse than it was. After all, it had failed to knock me unconscious. Then again, maybe I was about to drop dead. You never knew with head injuries. I decided not to worry, since it was highly unlikely that it would do any good, and continued my self-examination.

Gingerly, I felt my ribs beneath the thin layer of flesh. It hurt like _crazy_ to touch that area, but I sucked it up with a hiss and continued probing, trying to assess the damage, and recalling absently as I did that it had been Dr. Jonathan Crane who'd first taught me that the term _broken ribs_ was often falsely used—genuinely broken ribs severely limited one's mobility and could be life threatening; by far more common was bruising ranging from light to heavy. After a while, I concluded that while there was definitely bruising and swelling, and while it hurt to take a deep breath, the bruising didn't seem to be too severe—i.e., I could take shallow breaths without any pain. I was thankful for that. I'd never had badly bruised ribs, but I'd been assured that they were a bitch.

Next, I decided that a warm shower was in order. I still had a few of my least favorite clothes left (the rest were at J's place, much to my regret) and some towels that hadn't been stolen, so I grabbed them up, locked the bathroom door, and turned on the water. I stood under the stream for a long time, washing all the blood out of my hair, feeling the hot water first irritate and then soothe the injured skin wrapped over my body. When I was done, I felt much better. I wrapped myself in a towel, cleaned off the mirror, and stared at my blurred reflection until two conclusions drifted lazily into my mind.

The Joker was a foul, abusive, deranged son of a bitch who might in fact be the death of me some day.

This did not change the fact that I loved him.

I raised my eyes to meet my stare in the mirror. My reflection said, '_Really, Harley? You're still that stupid?_'

I glared. My reflection glared back.

"Think about it," I said aloud, needing to hear a voice sort out my thoughts. "That's what love is—not _fake_ love, _real_ love. When you _really_ love someone, that love doesn't fade. It… it doesn't _die_ just because something happens, just because the person you love twists and changes and does horrible things to you. I mean, if you're lucky, you'll fall in love with someone who _won't_ beat you up and who _doesn't_ take sadistic pleasure in hurting you, but we can't all be that lucky… can we?"

I looked at my reflection again. She looked sad. I shook my head.

"I love him. I _really_ love him. He could kill me and I still would love him. It doesn't mean that the way he's treating me is right. It just means… he's right _for _me. I'm going to go back to him, eventually. I have to. _Not_ because I'm latching onto him because he's stronger… but because I love him… because I _want_ to be around him."

Another glance at the mirror yielded a resolute face. That was better. I didn't look so… _pathetic_ anymore.

So it was established in my mind that I _would_ go back—but nobody said it had to be anytime _soon._ I needed to nurse my wounds, needed to restore my wounded pride first. I nodded at myself and turned away from the mirror to get rest.

As I pulled a black t-shirt on over a fresh pair of jeans, I heard a soft noise from the main room. Normally I would dismiss it was creaking walls or skittering bugs, but right now, I was more than a little paranoid. I thought _what if it's him? What if he followed me? _and was disgruntled when the idea brought forth an equal mix of fear and excitement. I tiptoed to my old jeans, fished the knife J had had given me out of the back pocket, unsheathed it, and crept out, keeping the knife at my side.

There was a cop there—older, fatter, bearded and a little greasy. He had his gun drawn and he was looking around cautiously, no doubt tipped off by the torn tape that something was amiss. He spotted me, standing in the doorway, and I steeled myself to run if he pointed the gun at me. However, my small build, my blonde hair and battered face got the better of him—nothing said _damaged _like a beat-up little woman in an abandoned apartment, and nothing said _predator _quite like the leer he gave me as he holstered his weapon.

"The tape _said_ crime scene," he said by way of greeting.

I widened my eyes at him, playing timid as I carefully slipped the knife into my back pocket. "It wasn't there when I got here. I'm sorry—I needed a place to stay…"

"Squatting is illegal in Gotham City, Miss," he said. He stood where he was, but he slipped his thumbs into his belt loops, index fingers extended in what a first-year psychology student could identify as a framing gesture, a subconscious sexual move.

I let my eyes look dead and desperate—it didn't take a lot of effort; I was hurt and exhausted and I fed off of that. "Please," I said softly.

I don't know if the cop just didn't realize that his examination of my body (showcased by tight jeans and the t-shirt I'd left behind because it was a little small and showed a thin strip of my midriff) was so blatant or if he just didn't care. He took a step forward, looking anywhere but at my eyes, and said, "Well. There are a few homeless shelters on the way back to the station. Maybe I could give you a ride."

_For fuck's sake, _I thought, fighting to keep the defeated look on my face as he stepped closer. _Just hold it together, Harley. Just a few more steps…_ my hand slipped into my back pocket, elbow cocked out as I leaned a bit towards him, gripping the edge of the wall with my other hand.

"Yeah," he mumbled throatily as he drew nearer, "you're a good girl, aren't you?" He was only a foot away when he stopped short and the lazy-eyed lechery on his face morphed into a sharp frown. "What the hell _happened_ to you?"

I suppose he'd gotten close enough to see that my injuries were meticulously inflicted, just shy of severe. I imagined the calculated nature of the cuts from the knife threw him off more than the bruises—usually, victims of assault would have facial bruising and sloppy gashes, not these neat cuts speckling my face and throat. I could see it in his eyes—he was unnerved, but I moved before he had the time to suspect anything. With the practiced speed regular sparring with the Joker will give you, I plunged the knife upwards, hitting his fleshy throat at an angle and driving the blade up towards the back of his head.

"_I. Hate. Dirty. Cops,_" I hissed in his face as his eyes widened in pained shock. Gurgling, he scrabbled at his gun holster, but he was already done for—he didn't seem to be able to focus long enough to undo the snap and wrestle the gun out, and his hand dropped limply. I felt the blood welling up warm over my knuckles, gathering in drops and rolling down my bare arm to my elbow, but I realized as I stared into his eyes that I was not repulsed, but neither did I feel nothing, as I had last time. In fact, I was… savagely pleased with myself.

I tore the blade out of his windpipe and let him fall to the ground, spinning neatly out of the way to evade the blood spatter. I lifted the knife and stared at the blade, coated in viscous, glinting red, and I felt that same flutter of pride. _One scumbag down. A countless number to go._

I wasn't worried about being hunted down for this. This was _my _apartment, and as far as anyone knew, I was missing. My prints were everywhere already, except for on him. They would go with the easy explanation—that he had run into a junkie squatter, common enough in this city. They wouldn't suspect me… at least, not until my involvement in the Joker's operation became more public.

The cop was fading fast. I looked down at him, listening to the gurgling, stomach strong and heart beating fast with adrenaline, and I thought, _this is what he made you for._

I catapulted into action. The officer was bound to have given his location to someone before going in; if he went long enough without getting back in touch, they'd come looking for him. I had no intention of being there when they did. I moved fast around the apartment, washing the blood from the knife and my skin making sure there was none left in the sink, then clicking the knife blade out of sight and pocketing it again as I made a mental note to thank the Joker for providing it next time I saw him. I grabbed the few leftover things that I wanted to keep and checked to see if there was any evidence that made it clear that I'd been here as recently as I had, but finding nothing worrisome (unless you count the cop's body), I slipped out. Within minutes, I was in my car, pulling away from the building, fully aware that I would never return.

* * *

**A/N** - Eesh. A thoroughly unpleasant day in Harley's personal paradise of a hell. First the brutal fight and then she commits her second murder. We'll get more of a look in her mind regarding that later on, but I thought it was important to emphasize the fact that she is a far cry from who she was in the beginning and she's not sorry for it. Hopefully still somewhat relatable/likeable, though.

As always, thanks for your spectacular support and all the love you constantly shower upon me. Reviewers are better than that tiiiiny little squeaking noise you get when you rub two latex(ish) gloves together!


	21. i don't fear the dark anymore

**Chapter Twenty-One**

_Seven times I went down  
six times I walked back.  
And I don't fear the dark anymore  
'cause I'm become all that.  
_**-Deb Talan, _Rocks and Water_**

I drove for a long time, not really sure where I was going, and as I drove, I thought. I thought about the man I had just killed and I couldn't resist comparing it to the first kill. There were factors in common—the lack of sickness, for instance, a strange absence of remorse, but I was well aware that this one had been much different.

The first kill had been an accident. I saw someone making a move that might have put the Joker in harm's way and I acted to intervene. It was all a blur; I barely saw the man's face, let alone had any real contact with him, and the little breakdown afterwards was a result of fearsickness. I'd always heard that after you killed a human being, you were supposed to experience physical illness and crippling guilt, and the fact that I felt neither confused and frightened me.

The difference between that kill and this one was astounding, though I supposed I shouldn't have been surprised—I'd been under the Joker's tutelage for a month, after all, and the sight of a dead body no longer inspired much of a reaction from me aside from vague revulsion. The scars and the turmoil and the things the Joker whispered to me in the middle of the night—they had twisted me, slowly, gradually, until my former self seemed like little more than a shadow to me, and I hadn't even realized it.

I realized it now, though. I just didn't care. This time, I'd gotten up close and personal. This time, I'd planned it, and this time, I had felt his blood on my hands, looked into his face as he died. Remembering that face, I realized that instead of feeling sick with guilt like I would have only weeks ago, instead of imagining his family and the pain his death would cause others, I felt a burn in my heart, a fierce sense of validation. He had intended to make a victim out of me. He had almost certainly done so to others—victimization of the powerless by the powerful was not made up of isolated instances; it was a pattern of repeated instances that would just go on and on and on until _somebody _stopped it, until somebody punished the wicked.

Who better to punish the wicked than its own bastard child?

I knew my motivations as a killer were different from the Joker's—he never pretended to be a humanitarian and thought justice was a myth. However, even if his motives were not altruistic, the end result damn well would be. From the beginning, he saw those people, people like that _cop, _people who probably went home to their families every night and worked so very hard on ignoring their own vice and who hadn't felt guilt for so long that they were now immune to its sting—he saw these _decent_ people and he sought to tear off their masks, to cut them open and expose the rot inside of them to their horrified eyes. He did this because it pleased him, not out of some desire to serve the greater good, but it was the result of this work that mattered, not the intentions fueling it.

The bottom line was that he was exposing the poison in the wound. It was up to the people of Gotham to decide what to do with it. If they chose to draw it out, to cut out the corruption, sweep out the filth, and make it impossible for us to operate, that was their choice. If they chose to ignore it… well, when they were writhing in pain and gasping for breath, they could only blame themselves. The Joker was an utterly indifferent harbinger, and I now fully embraced my role as his agent.

I drove aimlessly, succumbing to highway hypnosis as I thought—it wasn't as if I had anywhere to go right now anyway—but as dusk fell, I snapped out of it. A quick around proved that I was in Cathedral Square, almost all the way across Gotham from my former apartment outside of the Narrows and the Joker's place in Crime Alley. I wasn't sure how I'd ended up here.

After a second of checking my surroundings, I realized that streets and sidewalks were almost completely empty. This struck me as unusual, but then, considering that Halloween was the next day, maybe it made sense—people tended to stick to the indoors around this season; criminals just _loved_ Halloween.

I drove until I spotted a small scuffle occurring outside of a building about a hundred yards in front of me, to the right of the street, and I slowed to a crawl, wondering if this had anything to do with the empty sidewalks. Two men were throwing a third out of the door. The third was screaming and sniveling, and the first two looked down dispassionately at him.

As I drew closer, I spotted another man, emerging from behind the first two. His stark frame, dark hair, and huge eyes were instantly recognizable to me. I almost ran into the curb, slammed on the brakes, and leaped out of the car. I didn't care that it was crazy, running up to an escaped mental patient who may or may not have a grudge against me for the months I spent trying to "treat" him. I was starved for a familiar face at this point. I needed something to take my mind off of my fight with the Joker, off of my current lack of direction, off of… everything.

All three men turned and looked sharply at me as I came running up. "Doctor Crane!" I called, and he strode quickly towards me, as though coming to meet me.

The second I got in range, his arm shot up, and I slid to a quick halt. He was holding some sort of mechanism—my mind instantly told me that it was his fear gas, waiting to be deployed. I moved my eyes down his arm, sweeping up to his face, uncertainly meeting his stare.

He stared hazily at me for a second, and then recognition struck. For a second, I thought I was safe.

Then, there was a choking, blinding haze of mist, and despite the fact that I knew I shouldn't breathe, I gasped out of fear, getting two lungs full of the stuff.

And then…

Terror.

* * *

I opened my eyes.

I was immediately aware of the headache raging inside my skull. No, headache is too mild a word—this was a brain-melting, skull-splitting, eye-vaporizing, cephalalgic monster running about, wreaking havoc inside of my head. It was bad enough to make my previous injuries feel like mere stubbed toes in comparison, and I whimpered and screwed my eyes shut again.

Mere seconds later, though, I heard movement. My sense of self-preservation forced me to open my eyes once more and take a quick inventory of the room.

_Room_ was a generous term. It was more like a hole in the wall—dark, windowless, about six-by-six and stuffy. I was lying on a pile of mussed-up blankets shoved into the corner, and I was not alone.

I gasped and shot up, further irritating the monster inside of my head. An unnatural feeling of deep fear rippled just beneath my skin, and I had to consciously tell myself, _settle down, Harley. You've spent the last few weeks having knife duels with the most dangerous man in Gotham City and you're still alive; you can hold your own._

Still, the sight of Dr. Jonathan Crane wasn't exactly welcome, considering the way our last meeting had gone—and I remembered it now, the split second of hope before the fear. He stood there, totally still, a ragged suit hanging off of his skinny frame and a burlap mask covering his face. I found the mask even more unsettling than his unnatural stillness.

"Jonathan," I said, my voice trembling as I addressed him informally for perhaps the first time in our acquaintance, "take the mask off. _Please._"

He spoke from behind the mask, his voice pleasant. "Why, certainly." He reached up with a bony hand and drew the mask over his head. A brief flash of terror—the cop's dead eyes, a gaping hole in the throat, squirting blood as he crawled across the floor to confront me—and then my eyes focused and it was Jonathan's face again, pale in the dark room, cool and collected.

I groaned and leaned back against the wall. "You gassed me."

"I did," he admitted, sounding far from remorseful.

"I oughta kick your ass for that."

He smiled, a tiny, humorless bend of the lips. "Well, you're welcome to try. But then I wouldn't be able to offer you the medicine that might ease the headache you're no doubt fighting right about now." He raised an inviting eyebrow, and I would have glared at his insufferable cockiness if the headache wasn't so genuinely horrible.

I raised my eyes to his warily. "Truce?"

He fished in his jacket pocket, pulled out—_a knife, a severed finger_—a pair of glasses, which he put on calmly. That done, he offered a sarcastic smile. "Of course." Making an uncharacteristic chivalrous move, he stepped forward and offered me a hand. I eyed it mistrustfully, but yielded in seconds—_if he wanted to hurt me, he could have done so while I was helpless to fight him off—_and he drew me to my feet.

I stumbled as soon as he let go of me—the headache screamed in fury at the new elevation and worked itself up to a frenzy behind my eyes. I winced and forced my eyes closed, and to my shame, I felt tears forming behind them.

_Is it just me, or have I been crying way too much lately? …I'm not pregnant, am I?_

I considered the option, and after a half-second, dismissed the notion. I was militant about my birth control, and somehow I figured that J and I would have to be having a _lot_ more sex for it to slip up. A malfunction was possible, but… it was usually around two months when the first symptoms started showing, yeah?

My period was due next week. It was probably just PMS.

Crane touched me impersonally on the shoulder. "This way, if you don't mind." I opened my eyes and searched for any sign that he thought I was acting crazy, but his face was maddeningly blank, and I resigned myself to the fact that I simply could not read him.

I followed him into the next room—bigger, brighter, even if the light was from those horrible blue fluorescent bulbs. There was a sink and a set of cabinets, but it didn't look like a kitchen. In fact, this place didn't look like somewhere where people were meant to live. There was no one else around.

Crane went to a cabinet, opened it, and took out a rattling bottle of pills. He took a glass from the shelf below, filled it with tap water, and then offered both to me.

"Take just one of those," he instructed me. I took the bottle and the glass, and then looked up at him.

"How do I know I'm not just acting as a guinea pig for a new form of your toxin?" I asked, more for the sake of double-checking than any real doubt. If he had been any less dignified, I swear he would have rolled his eyes.

"You don't," he said bluntly.

I shrugged. "Fair enough." I popped off the cap, took one of the soft white tablets, and tossed it to the back of my tongue, washing it down with water. I drank the rest of the glass and then handed it back to him.

He set it in the sink and then crossed his arms, regarding me coolly, waiting for me to speak. So, I spoke. "I'm still getting flashes," I said, pressing a closed fist to my temple. "Like when you took off your mask… and again when you reached for your glasses."

"I _am_ sorry about that," he said. His tone was tinged with perfectly insincere regret, and I wondered that I'd never noticed how much of a sarcastic bastard he was (I mean, bastard, yeah, but the sarcasm was far more potent than I remembered). "I don't have as many facilities at my disposal as when I was still reputable, therefore the toxin is imperfect—the antidote takes longer the to sweep the last of the cobwebs away. I'm working on a new strain, but my work keeps getting… interrupted." He peered at me from over his glasses. I showed him a palm defensively.

"Don't look at me like that," I said. "I just happened to work in the place where you were incarcerated. _Happened_ to work_._ Note the past tense."

"Ah, yes," he said, the soft lips curling into something between a knowing smile and a smug sneer. "Rumor had it that you'd been… I think the word used was _abducted _by a certain former patient of yours. Or, less generously, _slaughtered. _However, judging by the fact that you seemed perfectly free and perfectly _alive _when you ran up to me, I imagine these rumors are… unsubstantiated."

"Well," I said, very carefully, "you know what they say. Where there's smoke, there's fire."

I was perhaps unduly gratified to see a look of actual surprise flit across his face, quickly pulled back, but thoroughly satisfying. He opened his mouth and then shut it, and I could tell he was dying to ask a quick succession of questions, but something held him back—the idea that a display of too much interest might give me the upper hand, perhaps. He'd always been one for powerplays, likely due to his unimposing stature (though I often thought if he truly understood how genuinely unsettling his stare could be, he'd never worry about it again).

Fortunately for him, I had very little interest in power—at least, power over _him_—and though I crossed my arms and smirked at him, I also told him what I knew he was dying to know. "I was told to take a leave of absence. I decided to make it permanent, and I went hunting for the Joker. I found him—well, _he _found _me_—and we've been together for… ah, we're going on a month now."

"I see," he said, sounding more than a little pleased by this news. "I suppose that explains the, uh…" He gestured vaguely at his face, and I smiled wryly.

"You should see _him,_" I said, less because I felt the need to apologize for my battered face and more because I felt that what we did and how we fought wasn't anyone's business but ours. If they were going to pry, then they would get misdirection.

Crane pulled a wry face, acknowledging my implied message—_drop it_—even if he didn't buy the implication of the statement itself. "I can't say I'm surprised," he said, moving on with a shrug. "Word is that Dr. Wilson was fighting against your treatment of the Joker almost from the beginning. It seemed he thought your _attachment _was getting unhealthy."

I snorted unattractively. "Sure. Wilson was also the first of many therapists to walk out of a session with the Joker, so I'd appreciate if you didn't take his opinion seriously."

"Oh, I never have," Crane assured me, a note of suppressed laughter in his voice. I double-took and looked him over, realizing that last time I'd talked to him, he certainly hadn't seemed capable of holding a lucid conversation for this long.

"You look well," I said carefully. "When did you escape?"

"Recently," he said vaguely. "It was time I got back into the swing of things."

"Why did you gas me?" I asked directly.

He raised his eyebrows, but I didn't buy the bullshit innocence for a second. "Well, you came careening right up to a deal in progress. I have customers to satisfy, you know. I had to make a split-second decision."

"Even after you recognized me?" I asked, deciding not to point out that the line about satisfying customers made him sound like a whore, figuring he'd take offense to it no matter how complimentary I made it sound.

A trace of a smirk appeared, quickly controlled. "I had no way of knowing you weren't there to cart me away again."

I actually _did_ smirk, feeling no need to hide my facial expressions to prove my control. "Oh, _what_ever_. _At worst, it was a powerplay, and at best, it was revenge. Most likely a little bit of both." He tilted his head vaguely questioningly, and I said, "Like you were totally okay with the fact that your former student was put over you in the Asylum you used to direct. That had to smart some, and I honestly can't say I blame you for wanting to even the field a little."

"If you choose to subscribe to that opinion, I doubt I could convince you otherwise—or would care to," he said, totally calm, his expression betraying nothing.

I shook my head, chuckling a little "At any rate, thank you."

Again, I jarred his smooth veneer of control, saw the little confused twitch of his eyebrows. "For what?"

"Bringing me back. I know you could have left me writhing and screaming, but you didn't, so thank you."

That seemed to throw him further out of his comfort zone, and he actually shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. I took mercy on him and changed the subject before he could say anything. "How long was I out?"

He checked his watch. "Forty-five hours. It is now one-thirteen PM, November the first."

My jaw clicked open. "What the—? I thought your toxin drove people crazy after like an hour!"

"Well, only the _concentrated_ doses," he said innocuously.

"You're telling me I've been out for almost _two full days?_" I realized something and tensed up. "What happened last night?"

"Excuse me?"

"You _know _what I'm asking, Crane. Last night was Halloween. What happened?"

He watched me intently for a few seconds. I started to get scared again, but this was not the sharp, toxin-induced horror—this was a dull gnawing, a vague sickness in my belly that climbed higher every second I went without an answer. Finally, he nodded a little and spoke up. "Children frolicked," he recited. "Adults reveled. Batman made an appearance, and the Joker went back to Arkham."

"_What_?!"

He didn't blink at the volume or at the shrill pitch of my voice. He simply crossed his arms and looked down his nose at me. "Quinzel, really. Some self-control would be appropriate here, I think," he chided me lightly.

"Stop playing games with me, Crane!" I barked, swiftly closing the distance between us and seizing the lapels of his suit. He made no moves to gas me again; he probably knew I wouldn't hurt him because he knew what I needed to know. "What happened? Tell me, or I swear, I'm gonna—"

"_Calm_ yourself_,_" he ordered, removing my hands with a look of distaste. I allowed him to detach my grip even as I fought the temptation to curl my fists and beat the answers out of him. "All you had to do was _ask._"

"I'm _asking_," I said, trying desperately to swallow the fear that had by now climbed up into my throat. "Tell me what happened." He tilted his head at me, and I exhaled sharply, correctly interpreting the rules to this petty game he was playing. "_Please._"

He smiled, just a little. "That's more like it. Well, Quinzel, your… _mentor_ had a big night planned last night. He's got style, that one; doesn't like to repeat himself. Very creative. What I wouldn't give to get him on my couch, though I imagine at this point _you_ could provide some valuable insight to the nature of his character as well."

"_Jonathan_," I snarled.

"_All right,_" he said with a touch of annoyance. "Be patient." He paused as if to make sure I could stand it, and when I gave no response other than a fruitless, violent gesture, signaling that I _knew _he had the power here and that I could do nothing, he nodded to himself in satisfaction and went on. "Apparently, he's been developing his _own_ toxin. I forget what he called it—Smilax, SmileX, something of that sort. The effects of this toxin are fascinating—I've been quite busy, actually, acquiring a body to study—"

"A body?" I blurted. Crane looked at me over his glasses, giving me a stare that I recognized all-too-well from my student days.

"Something to add?" he asked pointedly.

"No," I said, unable to keep from grinding my teeth a bit. "Please, continue."

"Hmm. As I was saying, it's fascinating. From what I can tell, the toxin hyper-stimulates the parts of the frontal and temporal lobe that control laughter. It essentially starts the victim laughing uncontrollably. The victim laughs so hard and so long, he eventually asphyxiates."

"You're telling me," I said slowly, "that J has developed a poison that makes people _laugh_ themselves to death?"

"Oh, a little more than that, even," Crane said huskily. "After the victim's demise, the toxin infers a sort of instant rigor mortis in the face. In effect, the victim keeps the expression he had the second he died."

"So basically, there are bodies scattered around with wide eyes and big grins on their faces?" I asked. Crane nodded, pursing his lips and studying me, the shrink in him clearly wanting to see how I reacted to this news. I waved the slightly disturbing image aside. "Got it. How does the toxin fit into what happened last night?"

Crane merely blinked at my lack of response. Slowly, he said, "_So_… the Joker could have easily released this gas all over the city, I have no doubt, but I believe that to do so would have seemed… _unsportsmanlike_ to him. Either that, or it would simply be too easy."

"Too easy," I repeated. "So?"

Crane looked a bit irritated at my constant pushing, but he had already reached the middle of his tale, and he kept going, probably figuring that dealing with my nagging wasn't worth the power games. "Around dusk, someone hijacked GCN and patched to a live feed. This feed showed a young woman tied to a chair, and your… _colorful _friend stepped in front of the camera wearing a doctor's mask. He didn't say anything, just showed off the bottle he was holding, then turned and approached the woman and sprayed her directly in the face. She was dead in minutes.

"He took off the mask, picked up the camera, and as he took it in for a closer look at the corpse's face, he wished the populace of Gotham a _Happy Halloween _and said that they'd be playing a little holiday game. He said that they had one hour to get to safe houses around the city before the toxin would be released in various, completely random places. He gave addresses to these safe houses, then turned the camera on himself and said that he was just so _happy _to be back. That's when the feed cut abruptly and control of GCN was restored to its operators."

I sighed, rubbing my nose. The headache had faded considerably, but after hearing Crane's account, I feared it was starting to return. "That man, I swear. Such a diva. What happened next?"

Crane looked at me from over the top of his glasses. "I must say, Quinzel—"

"Would you _please_ call me Harley?" I snapped. "I'm not used to _Quinzel_ anymore. It's getting on my nerves."

He blinked slowly, and then, a bit more coldly, he said, "You're reacting to all this news rather well."

"You're the one who predicted that I was as insane as you were," I said, forcing a lightness I didn't feel into my tone in hopes that it might soothe him. "Please, Dr. Crane. The rest of the story."

He shrugged and continued. "Well, you can imagine the chaos that followed. People were panicking. There was a large amount of uncertainty over these 'safe houses' that the Joker named—people didn't want to trust him, but neither did they want to take the risk of being in one of the places where gas was released. Many thought the _safe houses _would be the targeted zones. People were going in all sorts of directions. You could _smell_ the fear on the air…"

He closed his eyes. I was patient for a few seconds, but after the first five, I raised my eyebrows and snapped my fingers loudly under his nose. "Um, focus, please?" I asked. "You were telling me a story?"

He gave me a nasty look. "Sixty minutes exactly from when the tape first aired, there were several different explosions," he said abruptly. "One on Vincefinkel Bridge, one around the Clocktower, and one in City Hall District.

"They estimate about forty fatalities—maybe more, maybe less. Just after the explosions of gas, the _Batman_—" he spoke the name with a note of disdain—"caught up with your friend_._ Now, I wasn't exactly on the scene, so I don't know all of what happened. All I know is that around midnight last night, news stations were reporting that the Joker was in Arkham Asylum once more under lock and key. There's been a public outcry against him being incarcerated in the same establishment he broke out of not a month ago, so I doubt he will remain there long."

I let out a small, indignant huff. I was rather irritated that the Joker would go on with his plan without me (irritated, but not in the least bit surprised) and even _more_ annoyed that he had gotten caught. However, within seconds, I was hatching a plot.

I had to get him out, that was certain. I felt a smile growing on my face as the idea took shape—yes. _Yes._ This might actually be good. If I managed it, it would prove to him that _I_ wasn't weak, that I was perfectly capable of working independently of him, that I was with him because I _wanted _to be.

"_Harley_, I'm not particularly certain that I like the look on your face right now," Crane informed me warily after a few seconds had passed. I realized that I had been completely ignoring his presence, and snapped out of it abruptly.

"Perhaps you shouldn't," I said with a bright smile. "Thank you kindly for bringing me up to date, Doctor."

"What are you planning?" he demanded.

"Where in town are we?"

"Not… far from Cathedral Square; Harley, what are you _planning_?" he asked, entirely interested despite himself.

I looped my arms around his neck—he wasn't nearly as much of a reach as J, was thinner, less covered in sinew and muscle, I noticed as I leaned against him in order to peck him on the cheek. "I owe you one, Doctor," I told him, "though I'm not entirely sure that forty-five hours of pure terror doesn't cancel out that favor."

The kiss apparently took him by surprise. I was able to detach myself from him and spin away, going for the door before he managed to speak again: "Should I get out of town?"

I paused, and then turned back to him, still grinning. "No, Jonathan. Of course not. Just don't go anywhere near Arkham Asylum for a few days."

"I wasn't planning it," I heard him mutter as I pulled the door open and let myself out.

* * *

My car was where I left it, though it was now missing a window and a stereo. I rolled my eyes and managed to be grateful that they hadn't jacked my tires before pulling the door shut and peeling out, heading towards Crime Alley.

The city was ominously silent. There were only a handful of people out, aside from emergency vehicles cleaning up the aftermath of the night before.

I was impressed. I'd been living with J for several weeks and had never once caught wind of his final plans. I'd even gone with him on a few recon missions and had still failed to realize what was going on. He had developed this toxin in utmost secrecy, probably concerned that someone might ruin the punch line—and what a punch line it was. Forty dead was nothing to sneeze at. I had no doubt that he could have killed five times that amount if he wanted to, but his object was rarely the kill so much as the hurt. He wanted to make Batman's helplessness apparent to him, to wound him and hurt him and draw him painfully out of hiding.

He had succeeded, but something had obviously gone wrong. Perhaps he'd underestimated Batman's ferocity after the months spent apart; perhaps Batman had just proved too resourceful. Whatever the reason, the Joker was now back in Arkham, and I had to move fast.

I was starving, so hungry that I felt nauseous, but there was no time to eat. I had to go straight back to the place in Crime Alley to see if any of the boys were left. I had a hunch that said they would be. He knew how to pick henchmen, and the guys who followed him _needed_ a leader like him. They would be lost without him.

I reached Crime Alley in half an hour—record time, but the speed wasn't particularly surprising, considering the almost complete lack of traffic. It was as though the city didn't quite believe that the Joker was locked up again, was afraid to resume its regular activities for fear that he'd break out instantly and be displeased with them for going about their everyday business.

Normally, the day after Halloween, Christmas decorations would have emerged, the advertising for toys and diamonds and décor would be everywhere you looked. Now, though, there was no such evidence of the season—everything was still. Ominous. I felt euphoric at the reminder of his power, and I snickered to myself as I reached the building that served as our headquarters and a thought struck me.

"The Joker's stealing Christmas," I giggled to myself, climbing out of my car and going inside.

I climbed the stairs slowing down and getting quieter in order to listen as I drew near to the apartment. I could hear slow movement and several hissing voices. _Ah, good._ They hadn't fled, after all.

I reached the fourth floor, found the hideout door, and twisted the handle. It was locked. Irritated, I kicked the door, unconsciously mirroring the Joker's impatience the first day he'd brought me here. Like then, all voices inside ceased. There was the sound of a quick shuffle, and the door cracked open.

_Showtime._

* * *

**A/N** – Look for an update over the weekend at some point! Till then, reviewers are better than ironic clown masks (am I repeating myself? I think I am…)!


	22. the bitch you hated, filth infatuated

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

_I'm the bitch you hated, filth infatuated.  
Yeah! I'm the pain you tasted, fell intoxicated.  
I'm a firestarter, twisted firestarter.  
_**-The Prodigy, _Firestarter_**

A malevolent eye stared at me from within. I recognized it as belonging to Javier. "Harley? What the hell are you doing here?" he asked incredulously, his glare fading, allowing the gap to widen just a bit more as he recognized me.

That was all I needed. I shoved my foot in the crack and slammed my shoulder against the door. Surprised, he let it go, and the door flew open with the force. I strolled in like I owned the place and looked around, taking account of the remaining men.

Chaz was missing. Javier was there, obviously, as well as Tommy, Jake, and Roger. There was also a group of four or five men who were mostly strangers, though one or two of them looked vaguely familiar. I turned and fixed Javier with a glare.

"Is this it?" I demanded.

He crossed his arms, looking unusually hostile, and I vaguely realized that I'd never spoken to him this way and he obviously didn't appreciate it. I felt a momentary twinge of misgiving as he glowered at me—after all, he was only a little shorter than the Joker and weighed even more, meaning that in a fight I'd be at a disadvantage—but shoved it aside. I couldn't afford to even _think _my doubts at this moment.

"Of _course_ this is it," he snapped. "In case you didn't notice, the boss is out of commission. The only ones here are the ones who can't go home."

"Lost boys, I get it," I said, nodding abruptly and turning away. "All right, boys, listen up! Here's what we're going to do—"

"Excuse me!" Tommy had spoken up, and I looked attentively at him, raising my eyebrows. "Who put _you_ in charge?"

I showed my teeth, the corners of my lips pulled up in the mockery of a smile. "_I_ put me in charge. Now, sweetie, really—shut up before I bring Timmy out."

"Who the hell's Timmy?" Tommy muttered sourly. Jake, ignoring him, pushed forward like a bantam cock, all puffed-out chest and wiry biceps.

"Gonna have to agree with Tommy here, Harley," he said breezily. "The Jokerman threw you out. Or do you want us to believe that he beat the shit out of you just for fun?" He wiggled his eyebrows tauntingly.

I took a second to size him up. He was a little taller than Javier but didn't look quite as strong, and I'd been drawing even with Javier in our last few sparring matches. Taking advantage of the element of surprise, I lunged at him, going for the throat.

No, I mean I literally went for the throat. As he threw his hands up to fend me off, I grabbed his wrists, wresting them out and away from him, and ducked forward, sinking my teeth into his corded neck. He gave a quick, soft huff of surprise, which quickly extended into a scream as my jaw tightened and I felt flesh give out under my teeth.

I came away with a sizeable chunk of his neck in my mouth. I was rather relieved to see that I'd missed the jugular—I didn't want to deal with blood spraying all over the place—but I'd still made him bleed enough to serve my purposes. He screamed wordlessly at me as I let him go, stumbling back and grabbing his throat. I think I'd surprised him. I'd certainly surprised the other men, who stood completely motionless, making no moves to help their wounded colleague.

Come to think of it, I'd surprised myself.

I spat out the chunk of skin but didn't wipe away the blood on my lips. I figured it would give me a bit of an edge, that the crazier I looked, the warier they would be about trying to deal with me. I turned to the other men and bared my teeth for a split second. "Remember, boys," I said flatly, "Girls bite." I lifted my hand, curling the fingers into a claw. "We scratch, too. Anyone care to see?"

Nobody moved. I wasn't an idiot; I knew they weren't terrified of me or anything like that—if they swarmed me as a group, I'd have no chance, and everyone knew it. No, the mood had simply shifted. Instead of dismissing me as irrelevant, I'd earned some interest. I got the feeling that before, they had viewed me as an extension of the Joker. Now, they realized that I was just as crazy without him around to influence me.

"You crazy bitch!" gasped Jake, finally able to speak, examining the amount of blood on his hand. I shot him a slightly irritated look.

"Hey, you started it," I said childishly. He gave me the finger; I retaliated twice over.

Javier intervened. "Enough!" He glared then at me. "Harley, Tommy's right—I mean, most of us like you okay, but what the hell makes you think you're qualified to take over?"

I sighed, but because I liked Javier more than I did the rest of them, I gave him an explanation. "Because I might be crazy, but I've got a strategy beyond _sit and wait for orders_, which is more than I think any of you can say. Because you guys lost a boss, but I lost a _partner_." I emphasized the word, looking fiercely around, daring them to dispute this, but I didn't hear so much as a grumble. I produced my ace. "_And,_ possibly the best reason of all in this particular case, I used to work at Arkham Asylum. As in, the building where he's being held. I know the ins and outs, and if we're _very_ lucky, my boss hasn't realized whose side I'm on, hopes I might someday come back, and hasn't to revoked my access to… well, the whole building."

I could see the widening eyes, the shifting feet as the realization dawned on them, the understanding that they might _not _have to wait another few months to start working again. I grinned fiercely at them for a second, then, simply, I asked, "So, who's in?"

* * *

It took me several minutes of rummaging through the Joker's desk before I found the blueprint of Arkham I was after, and several minutes more before I found a suitable map of the Narrows (that is, one that was not stained with coffee, stuck to the table with candle wax, or scrawled over in red ink to the point of incomprehensibility).

Just a few of the other items my search turned up: a vial full of viscous green fluid (I hoped it was just a prototype of SmileX but by this point I knew better than to make assumptions. I did not open it), a blood-crusted piece of glass wrapped in a handkerchief, a meat tenderizer (it was wedged in the second drawer down, making it impossible to open until I managed to work my fingers through the tiny space and pry it out), and a tie with the mayor's face on it.

"We've got to kidnap a maid," I grumbled as I sifted through it all. I normally didn't touch the Joker's things—I didn't know if he would care or not, but as of yet, I hadn't been curious to risk asking, and I definitely wasn't going to do it without his permission. Now, though, things had changed. We were in a state of emergency, we had to act quickly, and if he noticed the disturbance when he got back (I didn't know how he could; nothing was organized, but he was a weird soul so you never knew), I'd just own up to it.

Finally suitably equipped, I returned to the main room, where the guys were waiting. I plopped the street map down on the table, smoothing out the creases and studying it for a second before looking up to address them.

"Roger," I said finally, seeking out our demolitions man. He stared at his feet, as usual, but gave a twitch of the shoulders that I took as a response. "Roge, I'm sending Javier, Jake, and those two—" pointing at a pair of faces I didn't recognize—"with you down into the sewers. Javier," I said, jerking my head to call him to my side, and he stepped forward.

I pointed to a line on the map. "This is where you want to be," I told him. "It's not exactly going to be pleasant work, but it's crucial, and you'll need to be fast. Lay the charges and be quiet, but definitely arm yourselves in case you're disturbed. There's going to be a lot of security right over your heads, so I'd prefer the use of knives if a fight is necessary—you won't call a whole brigade of police down on you, all right?" He made an affirmative noise, and I looked around at the little team. "I want this done by nine PM. Arkham staff switches to night staff at ten and there's always some confusion as everyone takes their places, so that'll be the best time to make this happen. That gives you seven hours."

Jake, who'd been standing in the background with his arms folded sulkily, suddenly slapped Roger across the back of the head and said, "You think you can handle that, retard?"

My eyes snapped to him. He'd found a pad of gauze to tape over his gouged neck, but he still looked wounded—the evidence was in his apparent need to assert his power over someone lesser to restore the balance upset by my little scene earlier. I didn't like that. He must have been a short-term guy, new, not likely to last long—the ones with longevity, like Javier, knew that ego had to be abandoned completely for the sake of survival.

I decided to be kind, to point out his problem rather than shoot him and rid myself of the worry once and for all. The group of henchmen was small, after all, and as much as I didn't like admitting it, we could use his help, especially on a deadline. So, staring unsmilingly at him, I said, "Jake. Sweetheart. I'm sure you know this, but in case it slipped your mind, let me remind you. Roger is the best demolitions guy we've ever had. The plan hinges on his abilities, and I'm pleased to note that _he_ has never let us down. So, please, for the sake of harmony and morale—don't try to pick on him. Because if you do, I will be wearing your eyeballs as earrings tomorrow, is that clear?"

This threat was delivered in the softest, sweetest tones, which seemed to throw him off even more than the threat itself. He blinked and looked even more wounded, but stepped back, and I glanced at Roger for a split second to see that he was actually looking up, looking at _me_. He looked away again almost before I could register it, but there is a remote possibility that he may have been smiling.

I shrugged it off. "Now that our dicks have been measured," I said pointedly, clearing my throat, and indicated another spot on the map. "You three," I said, vaguely gesturing to three more strange faces. "I want you on traffic detail. Starting at nine, disturb the streets. Steal cars, wreck them, set up fiery obstructions. Draw police patrols away from the Asylum, if possible, but I want you focused on obstructing the streets leading away from it more than anything else, and I want you to leave _this one_ clear." I traced a fingertip along 17th Avenue, which would lead down to the underbelly and get us out from under the eye of air support, hopefully before they even got the choppers up and running. "That's our escape route. At ten, be ready and waiting in case we need to switch cars, but I don't anticipate a lot of cops chasing us—at least, not initially.

"Tommy," I said, glancing up at him. He started a little bit, chewed on his fingernail, and I said, "You've got the easy job. You're going to be on lookout duty. You can drive me out to Arkham, and when I go in, you're going to stay in the car and keep an eye out for any police coming up through the garage."

I straightened up, taking stock of faces. Aside from Jake (and Tommy, who only gnawed more worriedly on his fingernail with the revelation of his task), everyone looked compliant—in the case of the guys I'd put on traffic duty, they actually looked excited. "Any questions?"

"Yeah," said Jake, still sounding surly. "What happens if your access _has_ been revoked?"

"That's a good question," I said, corner of my mouth hitching in amusement. "What happens then is that we wait. Arkham's regular staff switches at ten, but the night doctors don't really arrive until ten-thirty. If need be, I'll take one of them hostage. See? Backup plan."

The surly expression didn't really abate, but I was done with him. I folded up the map and said, "Okay. Demolitions, go to work—except Javier; can I talk to you for just a second?"

As the guys shuffled and cloistered together loosely according to their groupings, I took Javier by the elbow and we retired to the hallway. I didn't waste any time. Keeping my voice low, I said, "I assigned you and Jake to the same group for a reason."

"I gathered," he said wryly.

"Exactly," I said with a nod. "We can't have him screwing this whole thing up just because his feelings got hurt. If he starts making moves like he might sabotage, I want you to take him out right away. We could use his help, but I am absolutely _not _going to risk failure for him."

"Should I take this as a compliment?"

"Sure, if you want to," I said. "You're my favorite, though if you tell anyone else I said that I'll deny it up and down. Just don't get fresh," I added, cuffing him very gently on the chin, not wanting to trigger any explosive responses.

He shook his head, but he couldn't hide a little smile as he turned away and started rallying his guys, making sure they were ready to go. I watched for a second, but when I was sure the men understood what they were doing, I returned to the Joker's room. They'd been given their objectives. It was time for me to work out the details of mine.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. I took in the sight of the room at my leisure—I knew I'd only been gone for a short while, but it felt like so much longer. This had become a sort of home for me. Not the physical location itself, but the evidence of the Joker's presence that was scattered around—luridly-colored clothing that only _he_ could wear without looking like a complete fool, molding food and dirty coffee mugs ("We _really_ need a maid," I mumbled again), self-help literature (he sometimes read it for the laughs), mutilated newspapers, unmade bed, mismatched argyle socks…

The ache in my chest from missing him seemed impossibly strong, given that I'd only been _consciously _absent from him for a few hours. I didn't count the forty-five hours I'd spent under the thrall of the fear toxin; it had faded into the background like so many nightmares before it. I skimmed the surface of the memory and moved on—I didn't feel like reliving the hours I'd spent poisoned, thinking about the things I'd seen—

_J, broken and dying, twisted on the pavement under spotlights, grin frozen and broken_—

I tossed my head to the side. "_No,_ Harley," I told myself firmly. "It wasn't real. It _wasn't_. _Real_. Don't dwell on it." I forced that image, along with many others that had followed, out of my head. It wasn't real. No use lingering over that pain.

Now. A suitable outfit for tonight.

The Joker took more than a little care with his self-presentation. The purple greatcoat, the lurid, tailored suits, the odd color combinations, the war paint, emphasis on the scars and the green hair—it all served to make him a character, inhuman, _much _larger than life. The guys wore their clown masks, also dehumanizing, powerful in that they were simply _creepy, _but where did that leave me?

I wasn't a henchman. I wasn't the Joker, either. Neither look was going to work for me, so I was going to have to tailor my own—and a dramatic approach_ was_ needed. If _Jonathan Crane _got a signature look, I damn well was going to craft one. I was well aware that I was about to make my debut as the Joker's accomplice. No masks for me tonight; I was blowing all cover I might have had by waltzing into Arkham to free Gotham's most notorious criminal, and I definitely didn't think it was going to go so well that I would simply be unseen.

The clothes I'd brought from home were stuffed into the closet (which, I gathered, the Joker didn't use unless he had a hostage that needed to be kept—lucky for me, that hadn't happened since I'd joined him). I had a certain look I thought might work, and so, keeping that in mind, I dove in and started digging.

I started with the legs and feet. Those heavy combat boots Pam always made me wear out in the woods I would wear over a pair of ripped back leggings, chosen for their practicality—I had a skirt in mind, and this job was physical; the idea of flashing all of Gotham wasn't one I relished, hence: leggings.

Over those, I buckled a red-and-black plaid Lolita-style skirt, so fluffed up that it was practically a tutu, that I'd bought on a whim a year ago and had never worn. It gratified the little kid in me, and with any luck, would disarm my enemies into underestimating me. I was just a girl, after all.

I topped it off with a red corset I'd bought for clubbing purposes (right after the purchase I promptly outgrew the desire to go to clubs except to socialize with friends, so it was also scarcely worn), and finished up with the elbow-length red gloves that Pam had given me. The diamonds J had carved on my arm were mostly healed by now—they hadn't quite reached the white of fully-formed scar tissue, being more reddish brown in color, but I figured it would only be a matter of time. They complimented the look.

No sooner had I gotten dressed than I realized that I was utterly exhausted. You could argue that I'd been resting during the hours I'd been under the influence of Crane's toxin, but emotional trauma wears on the body as well, as I certainly knew. As soon as I acknowledged this, I realized that I was barely on my feet, barely had enough energy to crawl towards the bed. _I'll work up the makeup later, _I thought drowsily, and the second my head hit the thin pillow, I was asleep.

* * *

I woke to a pounding on the door.

"Harley! Harley, let's go!"

For a second, I was disoriented; thought I was being addressed by my father. Quickly, though, memory flooded me, and I stretched painfully. I'd been having a nightmare, the specifics of which I didn't care to remember.

"I'm coming!" I snapped irritably, rising from the bed and stalking towards the door.

It was Tommy. He opened his mouth to snarl at me, shut it with a snap when he realized what I was wearing, gave me a not-so-subtle once over, and then returned his eyes to my face. I lifted my eyebrows and crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe in sarcastic patience. He actually blushed.

"They're back," he mumbled, dropping his gaze to his feet.

I winced. "What time is it?" _How long was I out?_

"Around nine. We gotta get moving pretty soon."

"No shit," I said dryly. "Start some coffee, would you?"

His jaw jutted out stubbornly, but I paid no attention. I went back into the room, tugged on my boots, and then found a lab coat that could pass for the regulated doctor's coats at Arkham among J's diverse wardrobe and threw it on. I then fished my wallet and my knife out of the pockets of the jeans I'd been wearing before I'd donned the skirt—the wallet was important; it had my ID and access card. I put them both into a pocket, then went to the desk and pulled out the drawer where I'd seen some guns earlier. Out of the dangerously cluttered mess of weaponry, I fished out a revolver and made sure it was loaded. It joined my wallet, and I started towards the door, but then paused and turned towards the bathroom.

I went in quickly, almost guiltily, and found the tins of greasepaint. I took the white and black and slipped them in my pocket, leaving the red behind. Then, I shut out the lights and went into the main room.

The demolitions guys were back and the street detail had disappeared. I noted that Jake was still among the living, and I nodded in acknowledgement before asking softly, "How did it go?"

"It was beautiful," Javier volunteered. "Roger's a genius."

"Good." My eyes swept over to Roger, but he was watching the floor intently. I looked back resignedly at Javier. "_Very_ good. Do you have something for me?"

He pulled a little switch out of his pocket and handed it over. "Be really careful with that. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

"Not until we _want _them to, anyway," I said wryly taking it from him and slipping it into a separate pocket.

Tommy had started the coffee despite his sullenness, and I patiently waited for the pot to fill up halfway before pouring myself a mug and drinking it black—I was drinking for function, not for taste. Wincing at the bitterness, I leaned back against the counter and looked at the gathered men.

"Thanks," I said simply. I finished most of the coffee off, ignoring the burn and the increasing fluttering in my stomach as the caffeine went to work, and then set the mug down and gestured towards Tommy. "Come on, kid, we're up." I walked out of the apartment, and he trailed in my wake.

* * *

I stared out of the window as the car moved through the almost-silent streets of Gotham, more than a little restless. Not for the first time in my life, I wished for a teleporter—that way I could just poof inside of J's cell, grab him, and poof out.

_Aw, but then you would miss all the fun!_

I rolled my eyes and absently fished around in the center console, looking at the collected CDs, electric cords, hair ties, makeup…

_Hmm. Makeup. That's right._

I ran my fingers over the collected mess, and then grasped a tube of lipstick. I pulled off the cap and twisted the bottom, pushing the lipstick up.

I'd always found the color too dark for everyday use. It was red, theoretically, but when worn, it looked black from certain angles. Beforehand, the color held little appeal to me—I was more likely to wear bright red lipstick than muted or darker shades. For now, I slipped it into my pocket, next to the tins of greasepaint.

I grabbed a couple of hair ties from the console next and started to put my hair up to keep it out of my way, but halfway through, an idea struck. I split my hair and put it up into pigtails instead. I'd spent my entire college career and afterwards trying to look _serious, _to look _professional, _to look less girlish… why? Because cute little women like me couldn't expect to be taken seriously unless we hid our figures and pulled our hair severely back and wore glasses and light makeup, if any?

_Fuck that._

I was through playing by their rules. I was going to be pretty, I was going to be feminine, I was going to be sweet, I was going to embody the characteristics they thought _must _signify weakness—and I was going to utterly _destroy _anyone who made the mistake of underestimating me because of it.

It was a win-win, really.

Traffic bubbled up and then slowed to a crawl outside of Arkham. There were news vans, police cars, pedestrians… an unusual amount of people for this time of night. I directed Tommy into the appropriate lane and kept an eye on the traffic.

Sure enough, as we reached the gate to Arkham, I spotted the flashing blue lights. The road cleared up a bit, the news vans in front of us having pulled off onto the side as though waiting for something, and I stared at the parasites as we passed.

Once we reached the gate, a cop approached Tommy's window. Tommy's breathing quickened as the cop tapped on the window with his club, and I said, "Don't be scared, Tommy, I'll handle this. Just roll down your window."

He did, and I leaned over to peer up at the cop—a thin man that looked a little too old to be out here at this time of night. "Arkham is closed to visitors right now, Miss," he informed me.

I put on a disarming smile. "Oh, I'm not a visitor, Officer. I'm a doctor."

"Yeah. You and every other reporter this side of the ocean," he scoffed, eyeing me suspiciously.

I pulled my Arkham ID out of my wallet and passed it to him wordlessly. He eyed me suspiciously, and then clicked on his flashlight and looked over the laminated card.

"Dr. Harleen Quinzel?" he asked finally.

"That's me," I said breezily, surreptitiously crossing my fingers and hoping that the cop didn't pay attention to the news—or at least, that he didn't remember stories a month old.

He looked at me again, then glanced back at the badge. "Says here you're a resident."

"Yes, sir?"

"What's that mean?"

By sheer force of will, I kept myself from rolling my eyes. I anchored the smile to my face and said, "It means I'm new, Officer. It's generally considered normal for psychologists freshly out of school to work here under supervision of more experienced doctors for a few more years before going off on their own somewhere."

He looked at me again, more suspicious than ever. I began to suspect that he just didn't like me. "It's pretty late for you to be coming up here, don't you think?"

"I agree entirely. I was at a party," I said, leaning back and letting the fold of my coat drop open, exposing my outfit. He stared a little longer than was necessary, finally lifting his eyes back up to mine. "I was called in," I spelled out for him. "May I go through, please?"

He stared at me. Keeping the smile on my face, I thought, _I swear, if he asks me one more question I'm going to lunge out of that window and scratch his eyes out of his face._

Luckily for him, he handed my ID back and stepped away from the car. "You have a good night," he told us.

"You, too!" I called back, and as Tommy rolled the window up, I muttered, "Douche bag."

The gate drifted open. By the time we got through, Tommy was gripping the steering wheel so tightly I thought he might manage to crush it, and I shot him a brief, annoyed look. "Settle down," I told him. "He barely _looked_ at you. Go to the employees' parking garage; the visitors' entrance leads to a metal detector and I'd like to avoid that, thanks."

With that bit of direction, I settled back in my seat, counting the seconds until the start of the game.

* * *

**A/N** - Eep. One more chapter to go, then an epilogue. Can't you just feel the tension?

On Harley's outfit- no, no jumpsuit. It put it together using some of the same guidelines the costume designers in The Dark Knight used to conjure the Joker's slight shift in style- they put a sort of punk influence in there; cited Johnny Rotten as the sort of anarchistic aesthetic they were going for. I thought it'd be appropriate to bring some of that punk-lite in with Harley as well, even while keeping the original colors and styles, although some come about in a different way (i.e. diamonds are scars instead of patterns on her sleeves, makeup changes that will be touched upon later). However, this is in fact her rough draft. In the future, she fully intends to alter and improve.


	23. i'm gonna burn this whole world down

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

_Something inside of me has opened up its eyes  
Why did you put it there? Did you not realize?  
This thing inside of me it screams the loudest sound  
Sometimes, I think I could…  
I'm gonna burn this whole world down  
_**-Nine Inch Nails, _Burn_**

I didn't have much time to waste, I flipped down the passenger mirror and got to work on the final touches of my little ensemble.

I was almost hesitant applying greasepaint, as heretofore it had definitely been the Joker's thing, but I sucked it up and smeared some of the white makeup on my face. Carefully, I covered my face, rubbing the paint much thinner than J's, so that my flesh tone was just visible underneath, unlike his. I covered my face, then started on the black.

I applied the black in a thin oval around each eye, tracing the paint over my nose to connect them, attempting a harlequin mask look. I checked my reflection—it wasn't quite right, so I smeared some more paint out from the corners of my eyes at an angle, catlike. I looked again and smirked. Much better.

Tommy was parking. Quickly, I uncapped the black-red lipstick and applied it. I smudged it some in my hurry, but decided to leave it that way—I wasn't going for pristine here. Finished, I looked at my reflection and was pleased at what I saw.

I wasn't the Joker. It wasn't his style. It was mine, but any fool looking at me would be able to tell where my allegiance lay. The time for the subtle approach was long over. The moment I set foot in that asylum, anyone who knew me would know why I was there, makeup or not, so playing it safe was not an option.

I looked over at Tommy. He was staring at me, wide-eyed, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. I ignored the stare, tossing the tins of paint and lipstick into my center console to lighten my pockets some. I now carried my wallet, a knife, a revolver, and a detonator. I figured I was pretty well-equipped.

"Tommy, keep a lookout," I told him firmly. "Something unexpected happens, if the cops start swarming in… pull the fire alarm and hide. _Don't run,_ or I'm gonna hunt you down and gut you, I swear."

He glared at me, but I ignored it, stepping out of the car. "I'll be quick," I told him optimistically, and shut the door. I walked slowly to the entrance. This first test was the most important one—if my access card worked here, then it would work throughout most of Arkham.

_Still doesn't help you with busting J out._

I shushed my inner voice. Okay, so I didn't know the code to J's cell—didn't know exactly where he was being kept, for that matter. I wasn't worried. I could find someone who did know, and Gotham's inhabitants were a cowardly lot—when faced with the point of a gun or a knife, they'd spill. Believe me, Arkham's employees were no more or less noble than the rest of Gotham City.

I dug out my access card as I walked. I could feel the tension crawling along my shoulders, sinking into the back of my neck, but even as I approached the door, I could feel a strange calm pooling in the back of my mind, a new sense of certainty. Even if I couldn't get through this way, I had options. Even if I had to take a hostage and blow the charges early, I was getting into Arkham tonight.

I needn't have worried. My key slid into the lock with practiced ease, and green lights blinked as the door buzzed.

_Jackpot._

Moving fast, I shoved the door open. I was delighted with the unexpected success, tempted to laugh, but subtlety was key in this opening act. I couldn't bring down a horde of Arkham employees on myself—any one of them could call the police preemptively, and while that wouldn't exactly shoot this little operation in the foot… well, I'd prefer not having to work around it.

The employee's entrance had no metal detector, an oversight I believed would be remedied after tonight. I strolled down the hall, heading for the stairs.

Turning the corner, I collided with a very human body. I jumped back, reaching for my gun—and smiled_. Oh, this is just too good. _

I was face-to-face with Doctor Wilson, who looked more exhausted than I'd ever seen him, almost certainly on his way to his car to catch five hours of sleep before he would be dragged back to this hellhole. He stared at me uncomprehendingly for a second, then, I saw recognition flare in his eyes as I realized who was beneath the makeup and outfit. He opened his mouth.

I moved fast, ignoring the sudden flash of pain from my previously silent ribs. I'd forgotten about that injury—but then, I hadn't exactly been straining myself, and it had been more than forty-eight hours since I'd gotten hit. I figured they'd had _some_ time to heal, even though sharp movements—obviously—caused a jolt of pain.

I ignored it and grabbed Wilson's mouth with one hand, covering it forcefully with my palm as I fished the revolver out of my coat with the other. I quickly stuck the barrel of the gun into the bottom of his chin. "Not. A. _Sound_," I growled.

Wilson was a noble man, but he wasn't a stupid one, and he didn't struggle. I looked around to make sure our altercation hadn't been observed, but the halls were still empty. I spotted an open door further down the hall and dragged him that way.

It was a dark, empty office. I pushed him inside and flicked on the light, stepping in and shutting the door behind us, an excited hum starting along my skin as I realized just how _perfect _this all was. Wilson was my ticket to the Joker, and with that in mind, I kept the revolver pointed at him as he slowly straightened up and turned to look at me. I was pleased to note that my hands were as steady as a surgeon's despite the adrenaline pumping through my body.

"Harley," Wilson said shakily, "what did he do to you?"

I cocked my head. "Such an obvious question so early?" I asked brightly. "Come on, David, you're a professional. You know you've got to start with at least a _little _foreplay_._" He stared at me, his jaw tightening, and I sighed. "_No_ sense of humor, I swear. I don't know, David, what do _you _think happened?"

I saw his eyes dart over me, seeing the marks on my throat and shoulders now that my hair was up and the skin was exposed, seeing the knotted scars on my arm and drawing a conclusion. "Look," he said softly, tensely, "whatever he's made you feel like you have to do, however he's threatened you, we can help. He's locked up, and I know it's difficult to believe, but you're safe again."

I cackled. There was no other word for it, and I struggled to keep the sound low, to keep this little confrontation as quiet as possible. "Ohh, oh no, Doctor," I told him, struggling to regain my composure. "That's not gonna fly. What are you thinking, Stockholm syndrome? A captive developing a bond to her keeper in a desperate subconscious bid to stay alive? I hate to burst your bubble, gorgeous, I really do, but I was _never _a captive. When you sent me away from Arkham last month, he didn't show up at my window in the middle of the night, like some sort of… spectral boogeyman. He didn't drag me screaming from my house. I went to him of my _own free will. _He gave me a place to sleep. He encouraged me to see things the way they really are, for once in my life, and when I chose to work with him, it was with my eyes wide open."

Wilson put his hands out, taking a tentative step towards me. "Harley, he's a killer."

I snorted. _Tell me I wasn't once this naïve. _"What do you think _I_ am? And unless you want to have to pick your teeth up from the floor, _stop moving_."

He stopped, but I could see his eyes widening as he processed my words. He opened his mouth; I could see he wanted to ask but was reluctant to set me off. I smiled wryly and twisted the blade just a little bit. "Last kill was two days ago, since you're _not _asking. You'd be astonished how easy it is to get comfortable with it. You know," I added, widening my eyes and taking on a breathy tone, "it's almost like we're being _lied _to."

"He's toxic." The words forced their way out of his clearly unwilling mouth, and my eyebrows shot up.

"He's a _liberator._"

"He's a destructive force!" _Oh, here it comes, _I thought, rolling my eyes as he gestured violently. "You think he's _freed _you, Harley? He's broken your mind, he's beaten you and battered you and put a gun in your hand. How is that right? How is that _healthy?_"

I considered, and then pursed my lips and shrugged. "Bodies heal, and let me tell you, mental health is _way _overrated," I said flippantly.

His shoulders slumped. He looked… utterly weak. "I can help you," he said softly.

"You're damn right, you can," I said resolutely. "We've wasted enough time flirting. Now, I'd be _greatly_ in your debt if you could tell me where he is and give me the code for his cell." I paused, and then, as an afterthought, I added, "Please."

He stiffened up. "You're going to have to kill me," he said softly, shaking his head. "I'd rather die than let that madman loose on this city again."

I sighed in frustration. Out of all the doctors in Arkham, I had to run into the one with integrity, the one who knew me enough to assume that I wouldn't actually kill him. _What to do now? _I could shoot him and leave, true, but I didn't know for a fact that I would run into anyone else who could help me—if there was anyone else that even _could._

_Hostage situation it is._

I clicked the hammer back into place, shoved the revolver into my pocket, and pulled out the knife, flicking the blade out impatiently. "Suit yourself, but we're on my timetable. You're coming with me." He laughed in disbelief. I narrowed my eyes and flung myself bodily at him before he had time to put up his defenses.

He put up a good struggle. He had half a foot on me, after all, and he definitely outweighed me. However, I'd been sparring with the _Joker_ for close to a month. J was a tricky bastard in the ring and I'd never gotten even _close_ to beating him, but I had learned a few tricks. It helped that Wilson still clung to the tenets of chivalry and was reluctant to hit a woman—_lucky me_—so he was reduced to shoves, trying to get away from me.

It didn't take long before I had a knife to his throat. After that, it was easy to step behind him and twist his arm behind his back, nicking the side of his neck to show him that I wasn't playing around. My reach was limited, so he was literally bending over backwards to distance himself from the knife. "And," I crooned teasingly into his ear, "_upstairs_ we go!"

Maneuvering him out into the hall and up the steps was tricky. He kept struggling at the most inappropriate times, forcing me to give him fresh cuts on his throat each time. I was trying to avoid drawing close to the jugular, but I was starting to run out of space.

"David," I snarled into his ear as we reached the fourth floor, "you're making it really tough not to kill you. I can always find someone else to open the Joker's cell. Don't think I _won't_."

Those words accompanied by a particularly vicious cut to the junction of his neck and shoulder seemed to settle him down a bit. I got lucky—nobody else seemed to want to use the stairs at this time of night. Thank goodness for elevators and lazy employees.

We reached the top floor and I shoved him out into the hallway, returning the knife to my pocket and taking out the gun again. We were close enough that the sound of a gunshot wouldn't do much but cause an inconvenience and shave down the time I had to make a getaway.

"Keep moving," I said. He glared at me, his pride clearly wounded, but his eyes fell on the barrel of the gun and he seemed to decide it was a good idea to obey.

Behind him, I darted from one side of the hall to the other, looking in through the small plexiglass windows at the inmates. "No… no… _no,_" I muttered, frustrated as my search proved useless time and time again.

Then, inside of the fourth cell on the left… I caught sight of him. His back was turned to the door, he was sitting on the floor, but I would recognize that matted green hair anywhere. "Yes," I breathed.

Wilson decided that this was the perfect time to make his escape. He broke into a run, heading for the opposite end of the hall, where the elevator awaited.

"Dammit!" I hissed. I fluidly thumbed the trigger back, took aim, and fired.

I'd been aiming for the back of his knee. I hit him a little lower down, in his calf, and he howled in pain as he fell to the floor. I was right behind him, grabbing him by the collar and hoisting him up through sheer adrenaline.

"Get back here!" I snarled, and dragged him towards the cell. My ribs were screaming in protest, but the high I was experiencing blotted out the pain, turned it into euphoria. He was groaning and generally being a noisy nuisance, so I stopped and jammed the hot barrel into the back of his neck. "Shut up!"

He grunted through clenched teeth, but quit making noises like a dying animal. I finished pulling him back to the cell and shoved him against the door. "Code. _Now,_" I snapped, pointing the gun in his face.

"I haven't changed my mind," he hissed defiantly, looking up at me past the revolver. I had to admit, the man had guts. To soothe my frustration, I imagined what they would look like spilled out onto the pristine white floor.

Impatiently, I switched the gun out for the knife, and in a swift, sharp arc, I brought the blade down through his wrist. He screamed and writhed in pain as his blood began to pool rapidly out on the floor. _We don't have time for this_.

I dropped to a knee in front of him. "David," I said, breathing hard, "I don't _have_ to kill you. There are any number of creative things I could do to you to change your mind. _Put in the code. _Don't try to be a hero. I bet you the Batman's right outside; leave the _hero_ business to him."

It was bullshit, and I could see that he wasn't going for it. Drawing hissing, quick breaths in through tightly gritted teeth, he ground out, "You… don't have _time _to torture me."

"Want to bet?" I snarled, grabbing him by the throat, getting in his face, and twisting the knife in his wrist, and he screamed out for help. _We can't have that, _I thought, and pulled the knife out of his arm with a squelch, bringing the hilt hard across his face and shutting him up.

He stopped making so much noise, but he still wasn't yielding. I rose impatiently to my feet, nervous energy pulsing through me, requiring an outlet, and I paced a tight loop in front of him, trying to _think. _I ran my hands through my hair, feeling the blade of the knife slide harmlessly against my temple, leaving a streak of blood behind, and then I turned sharply on my heavy heel and pointed the blade accusingly at him.

"Why do _you_ have to be the exception?" I screeched at him. "Why are _you_ the only one to decide to _die_ for his morals? It _figures!_ The _only_ person between me and J and he's the _best_ fucking guy in Gotham City!"

Wilson was breathing hard, maybe relieved that I'd backed off for now, maybe just starting to feel the blood loss. He was certainly in a copious amount of pain. I could sympathize.

The thought stopped me mid-pace.

_Fine_. If I couldn't appeal to his inner selfishness, the wicked nature he insisted on ignoring, then maybe I could take that indomitable sense of humanity he had and turn it against him.

I slowly turned my eyes to him. "David," I said calmly. He looked up at me, I could see the fear creeping into his eyes as he realized that _something _had changed. "You're a good man," I said softly. "Thank you. I had almost forgotten that people like you existed."

"Harley," he began. His tone was pleading, so I cut him off—I didn't want to hear him try to persuade me. _You're better than this, Harley. Let me help you. Let me restore you. Have faith. Have faith._

"You've always looked out for me," I said, my tone still light as I walked towards him, kneeling down in front of him. "Always tried to help me."

"I care about you, Harley," he said gently, looking imploringly up at me.

I cocked my head and stared at him. "Well. Let's test your commitment, shall we?"

I pressed the naked blade against my bicep. "Harley, don't!" he said urgently, but before he could even fully voice his protest, I pressed the blade in hard and tore it through the skin, laying my skin open.

I watched as the blood welled up, and then looked at him with a teasing smile, biting my bottom lip mischievously. My adrenaline was pumping so hard that I barely felt the sting. "So, David, here's the new deal," I said. "You tell me the code to save _me._ If you _don't_… well, I'm just gonna have to keep cutting away, and it's going to get worse and worse. If the Joker's locked up and I have no chance of seeing him again… well, I don't see much of a point in living. If it looks like you're not going to give in, I'll cut my own throat. I'll drown in my own blood, choking and twitching _right in front of you. _You'll get to see the light leave my eyes, won't that be fun?"

His eyes were wide and panicked. "Don't," he said hoarsely.

I shrugged and put the blade to my shoulder. Wilson lunged at me, reaching out with his uninjured hand to try to pry the knife away, but I threw myself backwards, away from him, landing flat on my butt.

I was back on my feet in seconds. "Uh-uh!" I said vehemently. "You're not going to be able to stop this through force, sweetheart_._ The only way for you to save me is to _tell me the code!_"

"Harley," he groaned, falling hard back against the wall.

I pulled the sharp blade across my shoulder, tracing it over the skin, watching the thick red line welling up in its wake. It wasn't particularly deep, it probably wouldn't even scar, but all he would see was blood, all he would hear was my groan of pain. "Come _on,_ David," I said, grimacing. "It _hurts._"

"_Stop_!" he screamed.

"I can't!" I shrieked in return as I dug into the skin over my clavicle. "I _have_ to do this, David! Why don't you _understand?_ You're supposed to be _good_ at that!"

The elevator doors opened, way down the hall. It looked like someone had finally heard the commotion. A nurse and an orderly stepped out, saw the bizarre tableau in front of them, and froze.

I pointed the knife at them. "Call the cops!" I screeched. "_NOW_!"

They turned and bolted, and I snorted. People were always so willing to call on the authorities when it looks like someone's in pain; it saved them the trouble of having to actually do anything. I had just narrowed down my timeline, but it had been bound to happen sooner or later. I could work. I turned to Wilson.

"Listen, doll," I said, tracing the blade down my cheek. "We don't have much time left. You're thinking to yourself, _'I only have to deal with her until the cops get here._' That's not true." I reached down and cut open the back of my left thigh, through the black leggings. "The second I get wind that the police are inside the building, I will cut my throat."

The right thigh followed the left. "_Stop,_" moaned Wilson, sounding as though _he _were the one in pain.

Then again, he _did_ have a bullet in the back of his leg and a hole in his wrist.

I flicked the knife up carelessly to my throat. "Then again, there's potential for failure that way. I might miss the jugular. _So…_"

I shoved the knife into my pocket and brought the revolver out again, whipping it up to my temple. "_This_ is better, isn't it? Less of a chance that I'll screw up somehow. I can try not to get my brains all over you, but there's no guarantee. Are you okay with that?"

He screwed his eyes up and threw his head back against the wall. I shrugged. "I'll take that as a yes," I said, and thumbed back the hammer.

His eyes shot open. "Seven!" he said.

I froze.

He sucked in a pained breath through his teeth. "Three-nine-oh-one-seven," he added.

I sucked in a sudden, euphoric breath. _Yes._ "Looks like every man's got a price, after all," I said shakily. Quickly, ignoring the blood on the fingertips of my gloves, I coded in the series of numbers he'd given me: 739017.

For a second, I was terrified that he'd decided to lie for whatever reason. Then, the door _chunked_ and unlocked. I pushed it tentatively. It creaked open.

Ecstatic, I dropped to my knees beside Wilson. "I _always_ liked you, David!" I squealed exuberantly, and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a smudge of lipstick on his paling skin. Then, I hit him as hard as I could with the butt of the revolver. He slumped over, and I fished in his pocket for the ring that would hold the keys to the Joker's restraints before going into the cell.

He was sitting there calmly on the floor as I waltzed inside. He hadn't moved since I looked in, and I _knew _he had to have heard the commotion outside. A fleeting stroke of panic hit me—_decoy?_—before he finally turned his head and let me see him.

There was still some paint left over from his Halloween escapades, though it was smeared and spotty. I could see traces of his natural skin beneath, traces of the Joker that had essentially been the one to ensnare me. However, on a more infuriating note, his face was bruised; his jaw was swollen. Someone had done a number on him.

He looked up at me blankly, and I quickly moved over to him, hoping he wasn't drugged to the gills. "Give me your hands."

Responsively enough, he lifted his cuffed wrists. I grabbed his hands with one of mine and started trying keys with the other. "We don't have much time. Someone will have heard that gunshot. The people here are a bunch of cravens, so they're probably just going to try and muscle the biggest orderly to come up here, or just call the cops in from outside."

_Bingo._ The fourth key I tried fit his cuffs. I unlocked one wrist, then the other. Fluidly, he rose to his feet, and each of us unashamedly let our eyes sweep over the other, checking each other out.

I felt my mouth twist sardonically. "I've gotta say, babe, orange is _not_ your color."

He finally smiled as well, putting my sarcastic smirk to shame. "Welll," he drawled. "Aren't you just a little _doll_."

I felt a quick pang of uncertainty. Was he still pissed at me over our fight? Did he not like the face paint, how it emulated his? I'd seen him explode over smaller things, and with far less warning.

He pounced on me. He knocked me back against the wall, and I barely had time to wonder if this was an attack or an embrace before he forced his mouth against mine, his hands creeping up the backs of my legs, brushing past the cuts, inching underneath my skirt to jerk my hips into his. It took a second for the shock to wear off, but the second it did, I responded with enthusiasm, locking my gloved hands around his neck and pulling him closer, pressing my body against his as close as it would go.

We shared another of those bruising, powerful kisses, and I was lost. When his mouth slipped from mine to work down my throat towards the cut on my collarbone, though, the fire alarm went off, and I remembered. "J," I gasped. "They're _coming!_"

He jerked back as if stung, grabbed my wrist with bruising force, and hauled me out of the room behind him, almost tripping over Wilson's unconscious form on the way. He looked down as if surprised to see the good doctor, though he _had_ to have heard the gunshot, and I could see his mouth twisting in an unpleasant way as he spotted the lipstick stain on Wilson's cheek.

I distracted him, poking him in the arm with the revolver. "Here," I said. He glanced down, eyeballed it, and then looked up at me as if to ask _really?_

I just barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes and handed him the knife instead. He seemed content with that, taking my arm again and dragging me towards the stairs.

"Second floor!" I told him as we hit the stairs. "We're headed to the parking garage."

"I _assume_," he purred, sounding for all accounts as though we _weren't_ running down the stairs at dangerous, breakneck speed, "that you have an _escape_ plan?"

"Well, I'm not _completely _incompetent," I said wryly. "You just worry about getting us to the garage."

We ran into trouble around the sixth floor in the shape of three orderlies charging up the steps. When they looked up and spotted us, the one in back bolted immediately. The other two, though, were tough guys.

The first one went charging, head down, at the Joker, who grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him backwards towards me. _Gee, thanks, J, _I thought as I faced him down. I mean, I was flattered that he thought I could handle myself, but really, this guy was about six foot four and built like a truck.

I shot him in the abdomen as he careened towards me, then grabbed his arm and flipped him over the railing, sending him to the ground. I looked to see that the Joker had grabbed the second orderly's head and was proceeding to repeatedly bash it into the wall.

"J. J, we don't have _time_!" I said urgently after the fourth or fifth strike—the guy was probably brain-damaged already, no need to keep going until he was a bloody pulp. Almost defiantly, my companion hit him one more time before tipping him over the railing to join his colleague, and then we resumed our flight.

The closer we got to the ground, the more of a racket we could hear. The cops were on their way—I wouldn't be surprised if SWAT showed up, and we needed to be _well _out of the building before that happened. Quickly, we surfaced on the second floor, and I took the lead then, running fast to the parking garage.

Tommy was nowhere in sight, and I careened to a stop, looking around sharply for him. Little bastard had done exactly what I told him not to. J nearly jerked my arm out of the socket, impatient with my brief pause, and I snarled "Ow!" before decided to forget about the kid for now and go to the car.

He'd left the keys in the ignition. J, once he saw my car, headed for the driver's side, but I caught his wrist and tugged. "Trust me on this one!" I said urgently. "I'm gonna need to drive!"

He gave me an insulted look, but it lasted only half a second and he darted around to the passenger seat. I climbed in and turned the ignition. "Seatbelts on!" I called, and threw the car in reverse. I clipped the bumper of a stationary car behind me before putting the car in drive and peeling out of the garage.

The cops were waiting for us. The gate was open to allow their cars through, but they saw us coming from a distance and quickly put up a makeshift roadblock with two cruisers.

"Hold on," I said, and floored it.

My car pounded into their bumpers, pushing them aside and scraping through. My tires squealed as I kept my foot heavy on the gas, and finally my car worked itself free of the wreckage and lurched forward, weaving to dodge various news vans.

"Uh, Harley."

I looked over at my passenger with a quick, predatory smile. "Yes, J?"

"I, uh. I _hate_ to criticize such a…" He licked his lips—"heretofore _effective _escape plan, but… your _car_ is smoking, and we're being _followed_." I checked the rearview mirror. He was right—the cop cars that had been brought in to surround the asylum were swerving around, turning to follow us.

"Under control." I fished in my pocket and pulled out the detonator, throwing it onto his lap before returning my attention to the road. "Have at it, sweetie."

He looked at the detonator, then at me, and a delighted grin split his scarred face. He caught up the little box and, almost reverently, he thumbed the button.

I swear the back of my car actually lifted a few inches off the ground, even though we were already a hundred yards away from the blast zone. The explosion ripped up from the sewers through the asphalt, blasting several unfortunate bodies into oblivion and throwing cop cruisers and news vans several feet into the air. So much for the road.

At the massive explosion, which was admittedly some work well done, the Joker completely lost it. He whooped and howled, laughing and giggling and holding his sides. He laughed until we had all but left the fire behind and the only visible evidence of the destruction was the huge black cloud curling up over the buildings into the clouded sky behind us. Then, gasping for air, he said, "I knew… I _knew_ there was a reason I _loved_ ya, Harley!"

I took my eyes off the road for a full ten seconds to stare at the man bent double in my passenger seat and laughing so hysterically that I wasn't quite sure he knew what he'd just said, and then returned my attention to the road.

As I swerved off of the main road and took us down to the underbelly, I realized that I was grinning fiercely, and frankly, I couldn't have pulled it off my face any more than the Joker could stop laughing.

This, then, was happiness.

* * *

**A/N** - Whew. Blood, gore, explosions, and two crazy clowns in the midst of it all. That was fun. I know there wasn't quite enough Joker, but come on, it's Harley's opening night. We'll see him in the epilogue, which will be a third person assessment of the temporary state of things. Until then, drop me some reviews, which I love more than slouched shoulders and yellowed grins!


	24. epilogue

**Epilogue**

One week after the Joker's most recent breakout from Arkham Asylum and subsequent vanishing act, Lieutenant Adam Carter, relatively new head of Gotham's MCU in the wake of Jim Gordon's promotion to commissioner, paced quickly through the halls of Gotham General Hospital, searching for one room in particular.

It didn't take him long. The guards posted out of Dr. David Wilson's room, present in case Wilson's attacker decided to come back and finish the job, made his location obvious to anyone who was looking. Carter went to them, showing his badge impatiently. He'd been waiting to talk to the patient for a week—a week Wilson had needed to recover from the considerable injuries he'd suffered, sure, but a week that slowed Carter down nonetheless.

The guards stepped aside and Carter breezed past them into the room. He was pleased to see that Wilson was conscious and alert, pulling himself upright in his hospital bed at the sight of the newcomer. Carter, having suffered several gunshot wounds himself, recognized the coiled energy—Wilson was probably impatient to get out of that bed, betrayed by the sluggishness of his own body, and Carter immediately sympathized.

"Officer?" he asked, not exactly suspicious but wary, and Carter held up his badge, waiting until Wilson was satisfied and nodded at him before putting it away again.

"Dr. Wilson, I'm Lieutenant Adam Carter," he introduced himself then, pulling a chair up to the hospital bed. "I'm sorry I couldn't give you more recovery time before conducting this interview."

"No, no," Wilson said abruptly. "I'd have done it sooner if the tyrants that run this place had let me."

Carter's mouth twitched a bit as he produced a recorder, balancing it on his knee, the microphone angled towards Wilson. "This will be recorded," he informed Wilson dutifully. "You're not a suspect, you're not under oath, and I don't expect you to be able to answer all the questions I ask. Just do the best you can. You understand?"

"I do."

"All right. Maybe you can start by telling me exactly what happened that night, beginning with the moment you were taken hostage."

"I was leaving the Asylum for the first time since the Joker was captured on Halloween night," Wilson said after taking a moment to clear his throat. "I was walking through the halls, going to my car in the parking garage. I turned a corner and… there she was."

"I'm sorry—there _who_ was?"

"It's… it was Harleen Quinzel, a former resident at Arkham Asylum. She was wearing clown makeup and had a gun." Wilson paused, but when Carter didn't immediately ask more questions, he continued, sounding almost reluctant. "She… forced me up to the top story, where the Joker was being kept. She ordered me to put in the security code that would open his cell. When I refused, when I tried to escape, she shot me and put a knife through my wrist." Again Wilson paused, eyes wandering, apparently lost in thought as he touched the bandage covering the mangled arm.

Carter gave him a few seconds, and then, not unkindly, he prodded: "What happened then?"

Wilson looked back at him, glanced away again, and said, "I yielded. I typed the code in to save myself."

Carter thought Wilson struggled a bit to get this out, but he didn't blame him. If some woman had bullied _him_ into freeing Gotham's public enemy number one, he'd feel pretty ashamed, too. "Then?"

"Then she pistol-whipped me and I lost consciousness. When I recovered, they were both gone."

Carter took a second to absorb this, nodding slowly, and then he asked, "Why would a former resident of the Asylum want to help the Joker?"

"She was his favorite therapist during his first incarceration at Arkham. Dr. Stratford, the director preceding me, thought that he might respond better to her youth and obvious attractiveness than to some of the older, more experienced staff, and he was right. The bond between them… quickly moved beyond an appropriate patient-doctor relationship."

"In what way?" asked Carter. He was deviating a little from the script, but he was curious—understandably so, he thought. Not much was known about the Joker. Anything that came out in therapy would probably be worth knowing.

Wilson was thoughtfully silent for a moment, likely trying to think of how to explain without violating asylum procedure and confidentiality rules. Finally, he said, "Well, he fixated on her to the point where he attacked anyone else who tried to work with him. As a result of his single-minded attention, she started to respond to and empathize with him in a way nobody thought was healthy. Stratford took her off the case with my wholehearted support, but it was only a temporary measure. The Joker just got worse, and Stratford started worrying that the state would remove the patient from his custody. He eventually yielded, and, over my protests, he sent her back in.

"Ultimately, this resulted in the Joker's first prison break. She had nothing to do with _that _one, as far as we can tell, but she was at the asylum the night he broke out. He took her hostage but left her alive at the end. I attempted to reach out to her after this, but the trauma made her unresponsive and irrational. I asked her to take a leave of absence from the Asylum, since she was not in a state to deal with patients, and she obliged. When I tried to reach her the next day, she had disappeared."

"Do you have any idea where she went?"

"Initially, I thought the Joker had abducted her. The police theorized that he'd killed her. However, the other night, she told me that she'd gone out and found him."

Carter raised an eyebrow. "She just… _found_ him? She did what the police can never seem to do in, what, a matter of days?"

"I assume he'd left her with some indication of his whereabouts," said Wilson moodily. "I didn't see or hear from her in that period between the two breakouts, but I assume the Joker took advantage of her fragile state and her trauma to twist her mind however he saw fit. My theory is that she suffers from a sort of proactive Stockholm syndrome."

"Could you explain what you mean by that?"

"I think she subconsciously thought he would inevitably find her again, and so she went and turned herself over to him rather than wait for him to take her by force. I think she did so in an effort to earn his favor. I think her instinct to survive bypassed her will and rational mind—indeed, I think that survival instinct has twisted her mind to the point where she believes she is there of her own free will and not a captive."

"So, in your opinion, Harleen Quinzel is insane?"

"As someone who was a friend and knew her before she even met the Joker, yes, I think she is."

"In your opinion, is Harleen Quinzel dangerous?"

"At the moment? _Very_. She's stronger than she looks, and the Joker has uprooted every trace of the conscience she used to have. He has provided her with weapons and has taught her how to use them, and her appearance the night of the most recent breakout—the face paint, the colorful outfit—seems to suggest that she intends to serve as his accomplice from now on."

"You really think she'll be able to survive in the company of a guy like the Joker?"

Wilson considered this for a second, and then nodded slowly. "In my personal opinion, she'll last for at least a while. She's his… creation, his very own Frankenstein's monster. I think he's proud of what he's done to her. I think he'll want to see the people who love her despair of ever getting her back."

"Do you think she can be restored?"

"If we manage to catch her and separate her from the Joker for long enough to break her obsession with him… I hope from the bottom of my heart that she can."

* * *

_December 24th_

_Gotham City is in the thrall of Christmas cheer, though admittedly the season isn't quite as festive as it is usually. How can it be, with the madman known only as the Joker on the loose? Gotham is holding its breath, waiting for the Joker's next move, and his silence only worries them more. This anxiety is only compounded by the fact that now, our Clown Prince of Crime apparently has a companion._

_Her identity has been disclosed for the sake of public safety, not that it has helped. The papers are starting to call her Harley Quinn, having taken their cue from the makeup she wears on the rare occasions when she and the Joker are sighted._

_They've been keeping it casual. Just a few bank robberies. One assassination. Nothing big. Not yet. What troubles Gotham is that they are rarely seen independently of one another anymore._

_One crazy clown was bad enough, but two?_

_Gotham is not deluded. It would not be afraid of Harley Quinn if she were alone. However, the fact that she is with the Joker earns her a modicum of the populace's respect. The Joker is known for killing those who work with him. The fact that she's managed to survive next to him for a whole month—or longer, if the rumors surrounding the assassination of Senator Jordan can be believed—is very frightening to them all._

_How crazy would one have to be to be able to survive living with the Joker?_

_We leave Gotham to its troubles and join the new couple on a dark rooftop in Cathedral Square._

_Harley stands to the side, her head down and arms at her side, silent. She is dressed in red and black and shivering, her arms exposed to the freezing air, and there is a new set of diamonds carved into her left shoulder, almost fresh enough to bleed. She is not sulking—not exactly—but she's clearly upset about something. The Joker is clearly unconcerned by her mood. He steps away from her, pacing up to the wounded body of a groaning man who is lying on the rooftop several feet away._

_The man's hand is covered in blood, and it is stretched out towards an old music box mere inches from his fingertips, dropped when he was stabbed, spattered with his blood._

_Who is this man, and why did this pair decide to hurt him?_

_Does it really matter?_

_The Joker doesn't seem to think so. Carelessly, as though performing a mundane task, he drills a silenced bullet into the man's head—and indeed, murder is likely mundane to a man like the Joker now._

_The clown holsters the gun. "Well," he croons, "that's that."_

_He turns away, but then a thought strikes him, and, fingers twitching, he bends down and picks up the music box. He holds it in his gloved hands for a moment, fascinated, and then winds it up and sets it on a skylight to let it play. He listens with a cocked head to the tinny tune that emerges, then turns and jerkily strides over to his girl._

_He grabs her hands and pulls her into a dance, and her face lights up as she realizes that he isn't angry with her anymore. The two move jerkily over the rooftop, careening dangerously close to the edge, either not noticing or not caring. He twirls her away from him, and as she spins back, she treads on his foot by accident._

_His eyes flash and he lifts his hand, backhanding her hard. She bends over in pain, but makes no move to retaliate, accepting the blow. Within seconds, he appears to have forgotten her transgression and pulls her to him again, resuming the dance._

_Does Harley love him?_

_Well, it's either that or sheer obsession. She craves his attention and his affection, feeds off of it enough to ignore the pain and the manipulation. She gets annoyed when her love is questioned. When she is advised to leave her J, she maintains that other people don't know what true love is._

_Does the Joker love her?_

_That question must be answered with another: can the Joker really love? The answer is almost certainly no. It is true that he recites the words to her occasionally, but these words are used as a tool, cold, calculated, far from an expression of genuine feeling. However, Harley is an ideal companion for a guy like him. She flatters his narcissistic ego, she doesn't flee from the pain he inflicts upon her and often, thrillingly, she fights him back, she is happy to take the backseat to his grand-scale plots as long as she is afforded some of his attention, and she doesn't demand things that he cannot (or will not) give. He appreciates how dangerous she's become in so short a time, loves that he is the reason she now can kill without a second thought and can justify her actions to herself with the fervent passion of a convert._

_Sometimes when she sleeps, he watches her and thinks about killing everyone she's ever known—her clueless father upstate, that insufferable tree-hugging best friend she runs off to whenever he's a little too rough, her sweet, hopeful Dr. Wilson—everyone. The temptation tickles at him. The prospect of making her isolation utterly complete—the idea of forcing her to depend on him alone—practically makes his mouth water, but thus far, he has resisted. After all, death is the end of pain—and he knows they're in pain, knowing that their precious girl sits willingly in the palm of his hand, that at any moment he could… squish. He thinks about paying her father a visit just to taste that pain. He thinks about looking at him in false sympathy and saying, "Ya know, this is your fault," pointing out his sad inadequacies, his inability to protect his only child, his sweet daughter._

_Why would he ever take mercy on any of them and release them from their agony?_

_Taking this into account, the devotion she gives him and the twisted pleasure she affords him, it can possibly be said that in whatever skewered sense of emotion he has left, he genuinely feels affection for her. If the Joker was capable of love, then he would love her._

_However, he is not. So, he will continue to play with her mind, to hit her and cut her and hurt her._

_Harley doesn't take this without a fight, and he wouldn't like it any other way. She has a very clear breaking point. When she reaches that point, she will scream at him, tell him she hates him, and go stay with her friend Pam Isley, who is nursing her very own grudge against Gotham City, making some devious plans of her own._

_However, she always comes back. She knows this. The Joker knows this. She always comes back to him, and is always welcome. A wolf would be foolish to turn a lamb away from its den._

_It is quite possible that in the future, one of them will totally destroy the other. The Joker is rather careless with his toys, after all, and Harley may eventually refuse to put up with the abuse that is showered upon her, may some day open an artery in his throat as he sleeps. However, they could just as easily go on like this indefinitely. Masochists and sadists work well together, after all. _

_In fact, as twisted and wrong as their relationship seems to the rest of the world, it works. Odds are, they will still be together long after the other couples of the world disintegrate and die._

_Something about them defies death. Perhaps it is their aversion to rules. Perhaps it is the fact that they refuse to believe that they could ever become Death's subjects. In their own minds, they are immortals._

_And so far, no one has proved them wrong._

_**This is The End for now  
Don't be sad  
We'll be back someday  
XOXO, Harley**_

* * *

**Final Author's Note** – Yes, there will be a sequel. Finally (dating from the revision), I have a fleshed-out plot in mind, and I intend to go straight from this revision to work on the sequel, for which I've been gathering ideas ever since I first posted this epilogue three years ago. Expect more [aggressive] expansion, expect Batman, expect Rogues, expect an industrial noir atmosphere, expect variation, and most of all, expect Harley and the Joker under a magnifying glass, separately and as a pair.

In the meantime, if you're craving more Jokerfic, I advise you to check out my profile. For those of you who don't know, I posted a novella-length intermediary between _Bad Jokes_ and the sequel in process called _Malady_, which is complete, and there's also a Jokerfic several years in the making—sans Harley—called _Vivisection_. In addition to my own stories, there are several Joker-centric fics on my favorites list that are beautifully written and well worth reading. If nothing else, hopefully this will keep you happy and occupied until I emerge with the promised follow-up.

I think the only thing left is to say that the initial process of writing this story kept me busy while I was going through a move that could have been difficult, and the response was beyond anything I'd hoped for. I love hearing from anyone who has something to say (hell, even if you've just discovered this story years after its completion, leave me lovin'; I adore it so very much) and you've all been so positive and such great readers. I mean this from the bottom of my heart: **thank you, and I'll see you on the other side.**


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